


Serpentine Moves

by betagyre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Norman Conquest, Arranged Marriage, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Character Death, Dark, Drama, Ethnocentrism, Eventual Sex, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, Nationalism, Nobility, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-08 09:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 57
Words: 357,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: Medieval Norman Conquest AU.Fourteen years after eloping with a Muggle, Merope Riddle, of an English wizarding noble family, discovers that she and her son are the last of the line, so she petitions for her title and fiefdom back.  Meanwhile Lord and Lady Granger are minor nobility who want their daughter taught magic, but Lord Malfoy, appointed by William the Conqueror to rule English wizards, won’t allow an unattached Muggle-born to study alongside young purebloods at Hogwarts.  Merope and the Grangers make common cause and betroth their children, thwarting him for now.  But war is coming, and a long, dark path lies ahead.





	1. Twilight of the Old Ways

**Author's Note:**

> The purpose of this really, I swear, _isn’t_ just to force Tom and Hermione to marry. I _wanted_ to write a Norman Conquest fic, and the story will be about much more than their relationship.
> 
> **Disclaimer 1:** I am not intending to hew too closely to Potterverse “history” as detailed in the Famous Wizard cards and Pottermore. Specifically, there will be some Hogwarts policies that serve as major plot points and don’t adhere to the canon timeline. Certain events and character developments will be canon-influenced, but this story occurs in a true AU.
> 
> **Disclaimer 2:** I’ve never written anything like this before. Although there will inevitably be historical inaccuracies, I will attempt to not make it too anachronistic… with one exception: Their speech won’t be archaic. There will undoubtedly be some words in their dialogue that weren’t coined yet in real history. Still, I’ll try to avoid terms that are glaringly modern.
> 
> **Warnings:** I don’t want to post too many spoilers or spoiler tags, so I’ll just say that **this is going to be a very dark story,** especially the latter half. When I reach the chapters that may contain triggering material, I’ll post more specific warnings in the chapter notes. There won’t be descriptions of rape or sexual assault (and it won't happen to the protagonists at all), but I’m not taking anything else—and I do mean _anything_ —off the table as a possibility.
> 
> Another thing: Tom is about a year older than Hermione in this AU, and the Underage warning will be for consensual sex between teenagers. However, they’ll be young enough at one point that it might make some readers uncomfortable. This story _is_ set in the 1100s. I will not write it as “porn” where their ages would make that distasteful, but I’ll post a warning at the top of the pertinent chapter(s) regardless.  
> 
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> 
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> 

The Gaunt family, Lords of Hangleton, maintained that they had held their feudal fief from before the fabled Battle of Camlann in which Arthur and Mordred fell. Among the last nobles of primarily Celtic ancestry, they avoided slaughter or assimilation by the waves of invading peoples because of one critical factor: magic.

The Gaunts were highly magical, and they used their abilities to protect their fortress and lands. In the days of frequent wars between the Saxons and the Vikings, they isolated their holding from the outside world. It was to their benefit—and the detriment of many who served them. Hiding from religious conflict, they kept to a corrupted, brutal form of paganism which demanded human sacrifice and held that the act of ritual mass killing invoked great magical power.

They taught magic to their own children and the children of their vassals—for they would not elevate any to a title who did not also have the ability to perform spells. One of those vassals became a great master, so renowned and revered for his role in founding a school that the high family even permitted the wizard to marry their daughter.

But with the founding of Hogwarts, the ways of the Gaunts began to change as the light from outside breached their walls for the first time. Their other children, and their vassals’ children, went to the school while Salazar Slytherin still taught there, and there they were exposed to the children of the Anglo-Saxons, the Danes—those who had practices different to those of the Gaunts.

When Slytherin left, the Gaunts stopped sending their children there for instruction. No traitors to magical blood would instruct any scions of their ancient line in the art! Slytherin’s lady remained, because she had one small child and was pregnant with another, and she did not know where her husband meant to go. The Gaunts resumed their policy of utter secrecy, but the interlude was brief.

In the year 1066, a great prince on a great horse entered the country from across the water and changed it forever. He brought in his company a wizard by the name of Armand Malfoy and set him to rule all magical people in this kingdom—including the reclusive Gaunts. King William the Conqueror was, after all, a Muggle, and although he knew of the existence of magic and wizards, he wanted as little as possible to do with it. Lord Malfoy was his viceroy in all matters concerning the English wizarding population, and he was given almost unrestricted authority.

The Gaunt family later held that Slytherin’s son, who bore the name of Gaunt since the great schoolmaster had departed, brooded over the decision to swear fealty to Malfoy. What kind of wizard would put himself in service to a Muggle king? But he was ultimately persuaded by Lord Malfoy’s assertion that this king would let wizards manage their own affairs if he had assurances of their loyalty. Was it not better to take an oath than to invite war? Then, too, there was the fact that Malfoy had proper views about the importance of wizarding blood. It was a view that far too many of the wizards in their native land—even some of the landed families—did not share. However, the ones who were traitors to their own wizarding blood—and who refused to take the oath—would be dispossessed on Lord Malfoy’s orders, stripped of their lands and titles. In Gaunt’s view, it was a just punishment.

Thus Gaunt was among the first English to take the oath of fealty to Lord Malfoy. Malfoy made him swear some additional things. His family would cease open worship of ancient gods and stop practicing human sacrifice—even of Muggles. It was the sort of conduct that was likely to attract the King’s attention in a bad way, Malfoy counseled Gaunt. Since his mother had attended the school at Hogwarts and had not herself overseen any of the bloody ritual massacres that his family of old had performed, Gaunt had no objection to swearing this. It paid off. His family held their land and lordship. Malfoy declared Gaunt a Baron.

Gaunt did have a private request, a family exception to a certain decree in the King’s law. It was something of a family tradition that he wished to retain, he said to Malfoy in a seemingly apologetic tone, and it was manifestly natural for blood purity. Lord Malfoy agreed. After all, he did have broad authority to oversee wizarding affairs, and what the King did not know would not hurt him.

* * *

The fate of the Muggle petty nobles was rather different, and Alberic of the Grange was among the many who were dispossessed of their holdings by the invading Normans. He, his wife, and his son Bryan—who was but a four-year-old boy when he was removed from his family’s home—became important figures in the town that they had once ruled, teaching the peasants to read and including Norman French as a subject to learn. The lord who replaced them was benevolent enough to be pleased that his own subjects valued knowledge, unlike—in his opinion—so many of the savages. As the years of his rule lengthened, he came to regard the former occupants of the castle with fondness and respect.

After his parents’ deaths, Bryan—now called Bryan _Granger—_ assessed his options. The lord had but one legitimate child, a daughter, and she was prohibited from inheriting in her own right. Granger himself was thirty-two, and it was time for him to marry if he ever intended to. Surely the old lord, who had permitted his family to live and had even allowed them to foster education in the village, would rather his own grandchild inherit—even a half-English grandchild—than a rival step up and bring violence, or try to take the young lady by capture. Besides, Granger _was_ of noble blood, and he _did_ have the support of the village. Many of the villagers still regarded him as their rightful lord.

Granger was shrewd enough not to couch his request for the hand of the aging lord’s daughter in a threat. There was no point; the man was no fool, and in any case, why squander the goodwill that had taken years to establish? It was obvious, too, that the old man knew that this would please the locals and quash discontent: a show of respect for their country. The gambit worked, and although Granger was sad that his own dispossessed parents had not lived to see it, he exulted in his recovery of the family home through the marriage.

After Bryan Granger’s marriage, the family lived peacefully with Norman rule. It brought yet more culture, learning, and refinement to their home, and Castle Grange boasted one of the largest libraries of feudal England. They had three children—two sons and a daughter. The daughter, inspired by the atmosphere of learning, joined a convent. The two brothers married twin sisters from a nearby fief, knowing it would fall to one of them to secure the line.

* * *

_January 1129._

Merope Gaunt, aged seventeen, did not look back. She stood beside Sir Thomas in the little church and dutifully repeated her vows before the priest and few witnesses, friends of Sir Thomas who had agreed to stand by him as he married the well-dressed merchant’s daughter behind his parents’ back.

Merchant’s daughter. That was what she had told him, keeping her wand, her cauldron, all the trappings of magic secret. She had to use her real name for the marriage to be legal, but he would have fled in terror—perhaps even in disgust—if he knew that she was one of _those_ Gaunts, the ones who practiced sorcery and used to do vile heathen rites. The ones who were unrefined, uncultured. _Savages._

_They are,_ she thought as the priest affirmed their marriage. _They are savages, and I was right to run. What they had planned for me—_ She broke off that thought at once.

It had been very tempting to apply her magical talents to ensnare him. She was good at making potions. However, in the end it had not taken any more than a few well-placed spells to improve her facial features, and she had become—not _beautiful,_ but not at all repulsive either. She had a nice smile, she discovered, and that was quite enough. Sir Thomas was a young knight, hot-blooded and a bit rebellious. His family was sworn to the service of a Norman lord who occupied the manor that they used to own, and in the discontent of his life, he was eager for a romantic adventure.

Well, they would both have one.

* * *

_New Year’s Eve 1129._

Lying in a shabby bed in a London inn, Merope struggled to stay alive. Her newborn son needed her. There was no one else to whom she would entrust him. His father’s family would surely not accept him, as he was bound to be a wizard, and the very reason Sir Thomas had abandoned her was his discovery of her greatest, darkest secret. _Her_ surviving family would probably kill him for being half-blood. The Church? He _might_ have a place there—she had heard of one or two wizards who managed to pass off their abilities as “divine miracles”—but it was a risk that she was unwilling to take. No, she had to survive for his sake. He had no one else. _She_ had no one else, for that matter—but he was her son, and that was a reason to try to live.

She fumbled for her wand, that stick of wood that had betrayed her identity to Sir Thomas. It was the cause of this, she thought. Not her lies. Her lies had been necessary. Continuing to live at Castle Gaunt had not been a possibility after what she had discovered, and her elopement with Sir Thomas had been the only viable way to escape it. It was not her fault that he was prejudiced against magic. He had fallen for her— _her,_ the person—while not knowing what she was. She had had to lie. No, the wand was the reason for this situation, so she supposed that she might as well use it now.

She gripped it and pressed its tip against her belly, quietly casting a spell that—she hoped—would heal the internal injuries she had suffered in the birth. As the healing light passed over her, she thought it seemed to be working. Had she felt her tissues knitting back together, perhaps? She definitely didn’t feel any further flow of blood. Yes, it must be working. She was feeling better already.

For the first time since her husband had abandoned her, Merope Riddle managed a smile. She was going to live, and she was going to make a life for herself and little Thomas in London.

* * *

There was never any fear about the inheritance of Castle Grange. Of the two sons of Bryan Granger, the younger brother and his wife quickly had several children. But the elder brother—who inherited the title directly from his Norman grandfather as a child, although his parents acted as regents until he was of age—struggled with his lady to have any children until she was thirty-one. Like his grandfather, he sired only one child, a girl. As a daughter, they would have to provide for her situation, because the land and title were still limited to male heirs, like most.

Like most _Muggle_ titles, at least—not that Lord and Lady Granger had any awareness of that term until their daughter began to show odd abilities, very odd indeed….

* * *

_June 1143._

Lord and Lady Granger had never heard of Armand Malfoy, Lord of Wiltshire, until their daughter Hermione turned out to be a witch. Like most non-magical people who did not live in the immediate proximity of witches and wizards, they knew vaguely of the existence of such people, but to discover that their own daughter had the power of magic was another matter entirely.

Their vast library included numerous codices that were exceedingly rare, even considered occult in some quarters, but the Grangers were people of the world, and they could read the text without prejudice. The tomes made it perfectly clear that Hermione’s odd talents were magic, and a newer one by a “Mistress Rowena” alluded to the existence of a school of magic somewhere in the north. The Grangers had discovered that it was true, and that the person to see about getting her under the tutelage of the masters of magic would be Lord Armand Malfoy, a very old wizard now.

* * *

Severus Snape observed through the bustle of London as Merope Gaunt— _no,_ he corrected himself in thought, Merope Riddle—welcomed her son back from his first year at the Hogwarts School. Instinctively he pulled his black cloak close, though he was sure that they would not recognize him even if they saw him. Still, she might detect that he was a wizard, and he did not want her to know even that much.

Lurking in the shadows, Severus reflected on why he was even here. His family had been respected, titled vassals of the Gaunt family until his mother had married a Muggle lordling. It was not even an elopement; the marriage had been conducted openly and with the full consent of both sets of parents, but this “offense” was enough for Marvolo Gaunt to strip the family of its noble title in outrage. He had only deigned to admit the half-blood Severus as the castle seneschal—a _servant—_ and now Severus was being made to carry out the increasingly insane orders of a tyrant.

Lord Marvolo Gaunt had died a few years ago, and his half-wit son Morfin was now the lord of the castle, much to Severus’s disgust. He was loud, boorish, ignorant yet arrogant. He gave orders that made no sense and harmed the standing and interests of the family. He was utterly unable to keep his hands off the enserfed women who served in the castle, but was convinced that his unwanted “attentions” were charming. Severus was reasonably certain that Morfin’s—he refused to think of this creature as _“lord”—_ mind was going. His latest outrageous order was for Severus to go to London, find his sister Merope, and bring her “home.”

Severus had absolutely no intention of carrying out that order. He would report back to his “lord” that he had heard in the city that Merope was dead. Morfin would not know any better. He hardly set foot outside the castle, and he certainly did not accept owls or other communication from his fellow wizard nobles.

It was a disgrace for a fool to occupy such an ancient high seat while another contender still lived. Severus had queried a few witches and wizards from the magical quarter of London, called Diagon Alley, who had known Merope. All were in agreement that she had sense, intelligence, and was shrewd, frugal, and resourceful. She had maintained herself respectably as a potionmaker’s assistant, living a clean life with no hint of scandal attached to her name. And she had an able-bodied heir who could do magic—quite well, if the rumors about young Tom’s first year of instruction at the school in the north were true. Severus would have to contact his old friend Horace, the potions master, but he did not doubt the accounts.

Yes, Lady Merope would be a worthy liege, unlike her brother. As Severus saw it, his oath was to uphold the honor and the good of the _family,_ not to unthinkingly carry out the orders of a lunatic. Severus would go back to Hangleton, and then he would do what was necessary.

He was quite good at potions, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armand Malfoy isn’t book canon, but in Pottermore he is the first Malfoy in Britain, who came over in 1066 with William the Conqueror. Since that works very well with my setup of a Malfoy as the Norman overlord of English wizards, I made him one of the chief antagonists. I wanted the Malfoys we’re familiar with in the story as well, and they’ll appear.
> 
> You can work this out from the information in the chapter, but just to spell it out: The “present time” is June 1143. Tom has been at Hogwarts for one year. He’s 13 years old, and Hermione is about a year younger. I can’t see any reason to stick with the seven-year progression of modern Hogwarts for this story, nor the starting at age 11 rule. They’ll attend until the professors consider them to have mastered the arts of magic.
> 
> This was largely background information to set up the AU. The “story” properly begins next chapter. Thanks in advance for the interest!


	2. Toward Parselhall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the interest in this AU! The story begins, as promised.
> 
> I think I'm going to have alternating points of view in this story, in order to tell the story I need to tell. There will be chapters (and sections of chapters) from Tom and Hermione's viewpoint later on. For now, this is mostly POV Merope.

Merope pondered the document in her hand, occasionally giving Tom quick glances as he perused… whatever that book was. He said that the potions master had let him take it home for the summer season.

He was a dedicated student of the magical arts, and much more talented than she herself was, Merope thought. She returned to the document, biting her lip as her thoughts converged toward a decision.

A wizard whose name she only barely remembered, Severus Snape, was acting as steward of Castle Gaunt and the barony in the absence of any members of the family to hold the seat. He had learned of her residence in London and was writing to her to bring her the news: Lord Marvolo had been dead for several years, and Lord Morfin had perished suddenly in what Snape had declared was a sudden digestive ailment brought about by eating a large dinner. Merope would have to go before Lord Armand Malfoy, the Crown’s viceroy for all wizarding matters, and he had significantly increased autonomy given that the Muggles were currently locked in a war over their throne and had other things to worry about. Merope reflected on how odd it was that she knew more of the Muggle conflict between Stephen and Matilda than she now knew of current wizarding affairs in the aristocracy.

But the wizarding world did not hold itself to the Muggle custom of considering women unfit to rule in their own right. If she wanted the seat, it was probably hers, pending her appearance before Lord Malfoy at the Wizards’ Council.

 _Morfin is dead. My father is dead. Tom and I are the last of the line._ She thought about Castle Gaunt and her youth there, mentally contrasting it with the one-room flat that they lived in now.

Fine embroidered linens, jewels, luxurious bedcovers, tapestries, _the family library…._ Over the past fourteen years, Merope had avoided thinking of the positive aspects of life in the castle too much. Her father and brother had been mean-spirited, tyrannical, and—in her opinion—borderline mad, and it had been hard to separate the memories of grandeur from the memories of bad temper, pointless cruelties to the servants, vicious bigotry that never made sense to Merope, and then, at the last, the _threat—_ the threat of something unspeakable—

She rolled up the parchment and tied it back. It hadn’t happened. She had avoided that, at least, and now that Morfin was dead, it never would happen. The other memories—however unpleasant—would fade with time. She could make the castle into what she wanted. She glanced at Tom once again, smiling in spite of herself as she imagined the pleasure he would feel upon seeing the ancient library.

 _And other things, too,_ Merope thought. Tom did have a taste for grandeur and luxury, which had only accelerated over the previous year when he was placed—as she always knew he would be—in Slytherin House. She had been unable to provide him the finer things in life, but now, perhaps, she could. In her view, he was born to be a lord. He had the bloodline on both sides, and he had a way about him—as much as Merope was loath to admit it, he was pretty good at getting his way in matters that did not involve expenditures of money. He was a natural leader… and, unimportant as it might seem, he looked the part. Yes. She would claim the estate for his future as much as for her own.

She took up a quill, dipped it in precious ink— _thank Morgana that I am a witch and can make it last longer, it’s so expensive—_ and began to compose her reply to Snape.

* * *

Severus Snape was not an excessively handsome wizard, Merope noted when she met him at the wizarding tavern. Then she immediately rebuked herself; she was certainly nothing to look at. Snape at least was distinguished-looking.

She was not ashamed of her clothing, at least. It had cost her the entire month’s salary, but she had ordered a new witch’s robe of olive green, lined in light grey. The sleeves had more fabric than she was used to; she had not had sleeves like this since she was a girl. It was a gamble to spend this much money, certainly, a gamble that she would indeed be granted the title; but it would not do to appear as a pauper before Lord Malfoy—even though he probably would know that she was. Even so, this would indicate that she could dress the part of a noblewoman and comport herself with dignity. The best clothing Tom owned was his school robe, but it was good cloth and well-cut.

Snape introduced himself and bowed to her. She could tell that he was attempting to smile, but it came across as a grimace instead. _What would a smile look like on Snape’s face?_ she wondered as she and Tom followed him into a small, quiet alcove off the common room of the tavern.

They took their seats, and Snape began to speak of the legal and political situation, unrolling several documents to support his words.

“Lord Armand Malfoy is an aged wizard now,” he explained, “and although he does preside over the Wizards’ Council, he tends not to issue decisions until he has concurrence from his son, Abraxas, and the other high members of the council.”

“And who are they?” Merope asked.

“Arcturus Black, whose family was one of the first English to take the oath of loyalty to Malfoy; and Rodolphus Lestrange, who is Norman, and is married to Black’s niece.”

A scowl had formed immediately on Tom’s face. Merope looked at him curiously.

“His daughter Adelaide was hateful to me all year,” he muttered sullenly.

She gave him a sympathetic look and returned to the conversation with Snape. “Do you expect any trouble from them?”

Snape considered, his dark eyes flashing as his gaze darted about the room to ensure no one was listening. “They will disapprove of your marriage,” he finally said, “but the law is clear that you have the right of inheritance, and that your son—since he is a wizard—has that right as well.”

Merope felt queasy all of a sudden. She hoped that they wouldn’t publicly interrogate her about _why_ she had married Riddle. She could tolerate disapproval, as long as she got the estate in the end. That was what mattered.

“I greatly appreciate your help,” she said to Snape. “Now I must ask you some questions about the castle and fief itself….”

He nodded, expecting this.

She took a deep breath. “Is the castle… in good repair? And what of the land? My late brother… I fear that he might not have….” She trailed off.

Snape seemed to understand what she was asking. “Your late brother’s private rooms are somewhat disordered, yes, but he kept to himself toward the last, and the rest of the castle is as it has always been. The fields and village are also in decent shape… and populated, yes,” he added. “I expect that they will be glad to have a new ruler.”

 _I’m sure they will,_ Merope thought. She knew all too well how her family had traditionally treated the serfs, villagers, and servants. Authority was necessary, but there was no need for capricious cruelty. She resolved that she would be fair to her subjects. She would be a noble worthy of the title.

* * *

Armand Malfoy brought the Wizards’ Council to order. There was not a significant audience. Although it was much easier for wizards to travel great distances than it was for Muggles, most wizard nobles did not, apparently, choose to attend these meetings unless they personally had business with the Council, since they did not have votes on the Council itself.

They used to, Merope reflected. She had read about it. Before the Normans had come—before the Muggle king had installed Malfoy—there had been the Wizengamot, in which all the great families were seated. Malfoy had dissolved it and replaced it with this small Wizards’ Council, consolidating power unto himself and his closest advisors.

Merope gazed around the mostly empty chamber. She and Tom were there, of course. Severus Snape was not, since he was merely the steward of the property. Merope was on her own, but she had taken the discussion with Snape to heart. The notes that he had given her helped too. Beside her was a family she did not recognize, a well-dressed married couple and a young girl with exceptionally bushy brown hair. On the other side of this family was… oh dear… that was Caractacus Burke, a London shopkeeper with whom she had had dealings years ago and had avoided ever since. He had cheated her out of most of the value of a family artifact, she had belatedly realized after selling it to him, but it had been a transaction to which they had both agreed, so she was unable to take action against him. What business did _he_ have here?

She would find out at once, for Burke’s name was the first that Malfoy called, in his thin yet somehow menacing voice. The wizard rose, bowed, and began to speak.

“Your esteemed lordships,” he began, “I come here today to lodge my petition for the manor at Delafield, which is currently held in trust by the noble Black family.” He gave a deferential nod to Arcturus Black, then shuffled in his robes and withdrew a paper, which he began to read. “I have documents expressing the family’s intention to give this manor to my aunt, Belvina, but she passed away last year….” Burke trailed off as Black studied him pointedly.

Black considered his response. “I know of what you speak. My family did consider this manor an extraneous property, one that we had to maintain at our own expense for little return. It was our intent for your aunt to have it, you are correct, but she died before it could be put into a deed. You will need to provide evidence that you are the nearest kin to her, but following this requirement, we grant your petition.” He turned to Armand Malfoy, who promptly thumped his gavel.

Burke looked startled that his request had been granted with such quick dispatch, but he did not complain. He bowed awkwardly and took his seat.

 _That was quick,_ Merope thought.

“The next order of business before us is….” Malfoy studied the agenda before him, and a dark smirk appeared on his lined face. “Lord and Lady Granger, of Castle Grange, assert that their daughter is a witch and petition for her to be granted admission to Hogwarts School in Scotland.”

There were several dark, anxious looks from the members of the Council as the Granger family stood. The father began to speak.

“Your esteemed lordship,” he said, using the same form of address to the wizarding lord that Burke had, “it is true: Our daughter, Lady Hermione, can perform magic. We first discovered it when she summoned a book from a high shelf in our library. She wished to read it, so she… made it slide out of its place on the shelf and fall into her hands.” He glanced at the bushy-haired girl, who was standing boldly, completely unabashed, looking almost as if she wanted to speak for herself. “But she then informed us that she has been able to ‘make things happen’ for years but had never spoken of it to us.”

“Indeed,” Malfoy drawled. “Are you and your lady magical, then?”

“No, my lord, we are not.”

Malfoy smirked. “Then how did you know that it was magic?”

“We have a very expansive library, my lord. We knew of the existence of magic, and it is from one particular book that we learned of the existence of this school in Scotland.”

Malfoy turned to his son Abraxas. They shared grins, which Merope did not like at all. “In that case,” Armand Malfoy continued, “you understand, then, that we must first prove that your daughter _can_ do magic. You,” he said to the girl.

Her parents bristled at this disrespectful form of address, but they did not dare interject. The girl, Hermione, stood forth without fear.

Malfoy picked up a silver coin. “Summon this coin into your hands.”

She gulped as she regarded the coin. “My lord, I have never done magic on command before,” she said.

He looked at her impassively. “You wish to attend magic school, do you not? You will have to command your magic there. Move the coin, _my lady.”_

Merope was struck with the unfairness of the request. An untrained witch, who knew no spells, doing a specific thing _deliberately_ by magic? In a tense situation, at that?

Hermione was staring hard at the Sickle, her young face contorted with concentration. Time continued to elapse, though, without any movement from the coin.

Malfoy picked up his gavel and prepared to slam it down to dismiss the Grangers—but just as he did, the Sickle shot across the podium into Hermione’s hands. The members of the Wizards’ Council stopped cold.

Hermione stared defiantly at the aged wizard lord and held up the coin. “There you are, my lords,” she said, a hint of pique in her words in spite of her best attempts to keep it out.

Merope glanced at Tom, who was sitting beside her. He had shown little interest in the proceedings so far, but when the girl had done this—had performed wandless, nonverbal, _specific_ magic on command—his attention was piqued. He was regarding Hermione with new respect.

A sour, malevolent smile appeared on Malfoy’s face as he brought his gavel down at last. “The Council acknowledges that Lady Hermione Granger is a witch.”

A bright smile appeared on her young face.

“The Council denies the family’s request for her to be instructed in magic at Hogwarts School.”

Her father sputtered. _“What?_ Why, my lords? She did as you commanded. You acknowledged yourself just now—”

“She is a witch,” Malfoy repeated, silencing the man, “but according to your own account, neither you nor your lady can perform magic. We received your petition well before this Council opened, and we took the opportunity to research your family history. There is no record of anyone in the past century being a witch or a wizard. This means that, although Lady Hermione is a witch, she is also a Mudblood.”

“I _beg your pardon—”_ Granger might not have known the word, but he could tell that it was manifestly offensive. He began to reach for his sword.

“I did not give you leave to speak. This is our word for witches and wizards who are of _muddy_ ancestry—and you would be advised not to do that. Your swords are of no use against the wand of a wizard. You saw for yourself what your daughter can do.” Malfoy stared Granger into submission. “This is our rule, Granger. If you cannot prove that an ancestor of yours was a witch or a wizard, then we cannot allow your daughter to attend our school.”

“She must have inherited it from some ancestor,” Granger insisted. “We just… don’t have records that far back… because they were lost in the invasion….” He trailed off, realizing that Malfoy was of Norman descent himself.

Malfoy did not let the mistake pass. “Invasion? We are civilizing this country, Lord Granger. I understand that your own mother was the daughter of a Norman lord, and that your lady is also partially descended from civilized people.”

“You are right, my lord, and I apologize. But you must understand—where else can she learn to control her magic?”

“That is not our problem, but do you want to know what would be our problem?” Malfoy leaned forward, smiling maliciously. “It would be a problem if your daughter attended school and ensnared a noble pureblood wizard. It would be a problem if she, by being ‘different’ and ‘forbidden’ due to her blood, disrupted a _pureblood_ noble family’s prior arrangement. Yes, she is noble—but from a _wizarding_ standpoint, her children would be half-blood at best. If that happened, then where would we be?” His words were tinged with affected innocence and concern, but it fooled no one in the family.

Hermione exclaimed in indignant self-righteousness. “My lord, I am not—”

“Did your parents not teach you not to speak out of turn? Be silent,” Malfoy sneered.

Granger rallied himself for one last attempt. “If that is the problem, then would she not be allowed to enter the school if she were betrothed to a wizard?”

Malfoy stared at Granger, brought up short for a moment, but then that ugly smile appeared on his face again. _“Is_ she? No? Then I wish you luck, Lord Granger, in finding a highborn wizarding family who will take her. Purity of blood is important to us. Perhaps a _commoner_ wizard… but is that what you want for your noble daughter, to cook and clean a commoner’s cottage, since you Muggles do not allow your girls to inherit?”

Merope had been listening to the proceedings with growing indignation. It was obvious to her that the order to move the Sickle was not made in good faith, but to raise false hopes in the family—and the girl—only to increase the humiliation that they would face. She noticed, with dismay, that Hermione’s face was about to crumple at Malfoy’s latest words.

Malfoy thumped his gavel again. “Your petition is denied. Be seated.”

The Grangers sat down, and Hermione buried her head on the table before her.

After that, Merope almost did not want to go before these people, but there was nothing to be gained by failing her own hearing. It would not help _their_ situation for _her_ not to receive her birthright. When Malfoy called her name, she and Tom rose with great dignity and stood before the wizards.

“Merope… Riddle,” Armand Malfoy said, his lip curling at the surname. “You are the last of the Gaunt family, and you claim the title of Baroness of Hangleton and the associated lands and castle.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Malfoy’s blue eyes flickered to Tom. “And you have an heir who is a wizard.”

“I do, my lord. As you must know, he is half-blood, but he is a wizard who attends Hogwarts. Master Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of the school, was my great-great-grandfather.”

“I do know.” Malfoy studied her. “I understand that you ran away from your family to marry a Muggle.”

Merope steeled herself. “Yes, my lord. I was young, and it was… romantic.” _I will not speak of my father’s threat. I won’t._

“Because of this disobedience, you would not be considered for inheritance if any other heirs of your family remained,” Malfoy said severely, “but I agree that it is important to keep the ancient wizarding families in command of their holdings. We grant your petition.”

Merope let out her breath all at once. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You understand that, if you remarry, and your husband is a Muggle, he will not be permitted to hold any title, even that of consort. And if you marry a wizard—any wizard, even a Mudblood—then any children from that marriage take precedence over your son.” He peered at Tom, then back to Merope. “Are you still able to conceive, _Lady_ Riddle?”

Merope stared at Malfoy in astonishment. How dare he ask a personal question like that? And to ask it right after addressing her thus—the first time anyone called her by the title—was insulting. Armand Malfoy, it appeared, seemed to want to be deliberately insulting and demeaning to his petitioners. “Yes, my lord,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am. And I do know of the wizarding law regarding blood status precedence of heirs.” This was one of Malfoy’s first changes to English wizarding law, the requirement that when a witch or wizard had offspring with more than one spouse, the children of “superior” blood status had precedence.

“Very well. By the power vested in me by the Crown, I confirm you as Baroness of Hangleton.”

Merope was almost overwhelmed, but she stole a glance at Tom. Pride was suffusing his handsome face. _This is ultimately for him,_ she thought as she made her way to the front to offer her oath to Malfoy. _This is for him._

* * *

After the Council dismissed, the Granger family tried to keep to themselves in the outer chamber. Malfoy, his son Abraxas, and his friends pushed through them dismissively and then pointedly disappeared, as if to rub in their faces that they could not. The young lady was keeping her face hidden by that cloud of hair, and as Merope saw them, her heart went out to them.

Lord Granger noticed her. He visibly steeled himself and addressed himself to her. “I offer you my congratulations, my lady,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. She glanced at the young girl. “I am sorry for how that turned out for you. But….” She hesitated. What _could_ she do? She wanted to do _something,_ but what? Finally something occurred to her. “I remember very clearly that there is a family library of magic in the castle. I expect there are also family wands. Your daughter could learn the art from sources other than the school in Scotland.”

Tom’s ears pricked up at the mention of the library, but he said nothing.

Merope continued, instantly resolved on her sudden idea. “Yes,” she repeated, “that is an option… and I would like to offer my invitation to you and your family to visit the castle at Hangleton, once I have established myself and my son there.”

Granger glanced at his wife and daughter. “Are you proposing to establish a rival school in your family castle?”

Merope hesitated. “That was not… I meant private tutelage… but….”

Granger looked at her compassionately. “Perhaps you need time to consider it. You have just come into the property, after all. I accept your preliminary invitation,” he bowed, “and look forward to resolving the details.”

Merope smiled faintly. “You will receive a formal invitation from me in due time, then. It may come from… an _unconventional_ messenger.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“An owl.”

Granger exchanged a look with his wife. “Indeed. Is that a magical custom?”

“It is.”

“Very well, then.” He rallied himself, taking a deep breath. “I was honored to have met you, and I wish you well. A safe journey to you.”

“And to you as well.”

* * *

The castle was as Merope had remembered it. It had expanded significantly since the founding of Hogwarts and the Norman invasion, and had changed in architectural style as well, but that was still before her birth. Wearing the emerald-studded tiara always worn by female regnants of the House of Gaunt, Merope surveyed the great hall in her new olive-green gown, still the best clothing that she knew for a fact she owned—though she hoped that her old clothes were still here, that her father and brother had not destroyed them, and that they _fit._ Magic could do something to improve the fit of clothes, but it was easier when clothes were too big than too small.

Tom’s room would be one near the library—because of course it would. He would have a new bed commissioned, a great wooden bed with heavy green velvet drapes. There was more than enough money to pay for it. Severus had gone over the accounts with Merope as soon as she had taken up residence in the castle. Either Morfin had been frugal—which Merope could not believe—or Severus had concealed from him the true income to the barony from the farms. That was what Merope rather suspected.

If that was true, she thought, then it meant that Severus was not entirely to be trusted… at first. He had acted upon his own judgment about his lord—a _correct_ judgment, but still, an independent one—and it meant that she would have to earn his loyalty. She wondered for a moment about the sudden digestive ailment that had carried off Morfin, but instantly dismissed that idea. Severus had been nothing but helpful to her. He had _wanted_ her to be the baroness. He might have had little loyalty to a man like Morfin, who manifestly had not deserved it, but he had retained loyalty to the family.

 _The family._ Merope had mixed feelings about that concept. She had a right to this place because she was a Gaunt, but she had decided that she would not emphasize the name too much. Tom bore his father’s name, and the name of Gaunt was extinct in the male line. Merope’s claim was based on her own birth, but as far as she was concerned, she was starting a new house named Riddle. She had even decided to rename Castle Gaunt itself. _Parselhall,_ she had determined. It recognized their heritage without shackling them to the Gaunt name and all its depravities.

She smiled again, surveying her new domain once more. It was difficult, and she did not really know what she was doing—she had to rely on Severus to understand a lot of the clerical and legal matters—but she was determined to learn. It would get easier with time.

The Granger family was to arrive here in an hour for their visit, she recalled. Tom had better be ready to receive them. He was holed up in the library, as he had been every day since they moved into the castle. She could not fault him for his thirst for knowledge, but he still needed to look the part of his new station. She walked toward the library to find him.

That room was vast and tall, with two stories of bookshelves holding books, scrolls, tied codices… and some magical artifacts. Tom was ensconced in a corner, reading a dusty tome and frowning as he mentally translated the text from whatever its original language was. Merope drew near to him to see what he was reading.

He glanced up at her and smiled thinly. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that we’re descended from Morgana?”

Merope glanced at the book, which was, indeed, a family history. She winced. The family claimed descent from Morgana le Fay through Mordred, conveniently glossing over the paternity of Mordred… but only because of Arthur’s Muggle status. The… practice… had certainly not gone extinct in the family after that, and she did not really want Tom to learn about it just yet. Slytherin’s own son and daughter, the very ones who had first sworn fealty to Malfoy after Slytherin’s departure from the island—

“It never seemed relevant,” she said briskly, taking the book away from Tom and ignoring the surprise and disapproval in his face.

“You told me about Slytherin.”

“You were going to the school at Hogwarts, placed in Slytherin House, a Parselmouth, and the man was your great-great-great-grandfather. Morgana was six hundred years ago. It was not relevant.”

“It’s relevant _now,”_ he muttered, looking longingly at the genealogy that his mother was levitating to the top of a shelf.

“Our claim does not rest on that, though,” she pointed out. “Now, I see that you are wearing your fine robes—”

“Yes, Mother, the Granger family is supposed to be here. I know.”

Merope smiled in spite of herself. She should have known that he would be organized. _I’m just nervous,_ she told herself. _Just nervous about all this. Everything will be all right, though._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that many, perhaps most, versions of the Arthurian legend do not have Morgana as the mother of Mordred. For all we know, she’s not his mother in this AU either. Merope and Tom believe that the documents in the castle are accurate and therefore that they are descended from Morgana le Fay through Mordred (who, in this AU, was a wizard). They also believe some other unusual things about the legend. Let’s just say there’s a reason Merope didn’t use the name of Merlin, a wizard who served a Muggle king, in her mental monologue. They’re not going to investigate further, because they don’t doubt those documents. There were several versions of the Arthurian story floating around by this era even in real history, and their family legend is another account that may or may not be “true.” The point is that they _believe_ it, and later on, this belief will be highly important to certain character actions.


	3. Beginnings of a Beautiful Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you so much for your interest in this story! I am going to _try_ (operative word being "try") to make regular updates on Friday evenings... or Saturdays at the latest, because I anticipate it being a long story, and I don't want to drag it out in time too long.
> 
> About this chapter: Despite how seemingly nice it is, don't be fooled. This is not going to be a sugary love story. I am also going to say, Tom is nicer than he is in canon (or in 1940s Time Turner AUs, including my own _Choosing Grey_ ) because in this AU, he was raised by his mother. But he still has certain essential qualities and interests.

Lord and Lady Granger had a grand library of their own, but they were awed by the scale and antiquity of the Gaunt library nonetheless. Once introductions had been made on both sides, and the Grangers and Riddles sat in the vast room to get acquainted, they still could not help but gaze in awe at the walls of books and other, older manuscripts.

Hermione could barely sit still. Merope suppressed an amused smile as she periodically forced herself to be attentive and “ladylike,” only for her eyes to stray hungrily toward a shelf, to squint, and then for her gaze to slowly move side to side as she read the titles from a distance.

At last Hermione’s own parents noticed what was happening and pleaded silently with Merope to let her have a closer look at some of the texts that she so obviously wanted to see. Merope was not trained in Legilimency, but she did not have to be. It was obvious to her. Still smiling, she turned to Tom, who was sitting boredly next to her.

“If our guests do not mind, Tom, would you show H— _Lady_ Hermione some of the volumes while we continue our discussion?” she asked. The Grangers flashed grateful looks.

Tom gave his mother a querying look, but he did not refuse. He knew what he was “supposed to do” and usually did it—though Merope suspected it was usually just to keep up appearances. Having been raised in a poor household by only his mother, Tom did seem to feel that he had to prove himself, to appear well-bred and gentlemanly before other people to stave off at least some of the scorn for their circumstances—their _former_ circumstances. Now it seemed he would keep it up to prevent people from thinking that he was unfit for his new status. It would serve him well now, at least, Merope thought.

Offering his arm to Hermione, he escorted her impassively to a part of the library that was out of the adults’ hearing. The books were also primarily newer, and dealt with more recently developed magic. He stopped in front of a particular shelf and ran his thumb over the books, finally selecting a particular one. Brusquely he pulled it out of the shelf and handed it to Hermione. Its title was _The Foundations of Magick._

“If my mother really does intend to foster you here under some sort of private tutelage, then this is probably the first book you should read,” he said to her. He gestured for her to sit down in the nearest chair.

Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully as she took her seat and opened the book. Tom walked to a nearby bookshelf and began scanning it, but in a moment Hermione interrupted his focus.

“Are you going to get a book for yourself?” she inquired.

Tom had not actually intended to read. He turned around, hands empty, and hesitated for a moment, debating privately about what to say in response—or what to do. Pride in his grand new home warred with mild annoyance at the presence of these guests—this interloping girl in _his_ library. Yet at the same time, he thought, perhaps this was an opportunity to show her how much magic he knew. At Hogwarts, the only people who were impressed with his innate talent and quick mastery were the professors. The students in Slytherin House disapproved on principle of a half-blood in their midst, even one who was a direct descendant of the founder himself, and it did not seem to matter that he could outperform them. Hermione, on the other hand, might be impressed.

Finally he turned back toward the chair where she sat and took his seat in the chair opposite hers. She had opened the book and was already devouring its contents. A smirk formed on his face. _That_ was certainly familiar….

He watched her read for a moment, then decided to speak up. “If there is anything you need explained, by all means, ask me. Or… demonstrated,” he added, unable to stop himself.

She regarded him evenly, as though she saw right through his offer. “I _was_ curious, though—do you by any chance have extra wands? I thought that perhaps I might….” She trailed off.

As it happened, Tom did know the answer to that. The wands of his uncle and grandfather were in the library, and out of curiosity, he had tried using them shortly after he and his mother had moved in. The effect was… not pleasant. He vastly preferred his own wand. Still, Tom supposed that Hermione might like to try anyway. He went to the table where they lay, picked up his uncle Morfin’s, and returned to Hermione with it in hand.

Merope looked up from her discussion with the Grangers, somewhat surprised. She had not forbidden him from touching these wands, and she had no objection to him letting Hermione use them either, but this situation could result in a magical accident. _She_ would have to fix the problem if that happened. Her conversation with the Grangers faltered as they all watched.

Hermione frowned as Tom handed the wand to her. “This is… odd,” she remarked. “It’s almost as though the wand resists me—but that can’t be so, can it?”

Tom smirked. “Actually,” he said, glad to show off his knowledge, “you will find that there are many kinds of magical objects that react to you of their own accord.”

Hermione swished the wand through the air experimentally, not casting a spell, just getting used to the feel of it. “But they don’t actually _think_ or have feelings.”

“Some do.”

Hermione gazed skeptically at him. “Is that _really_ so?”

“Oh, yes. Wands and staffs are the most commonly known type. There is a debate among wandlore masters about whether they actually ‘think,’ but it’s well known that the wand chooses the wizard, and so there’s a kind of match.” He drew his own and smiled smugly at her. “That’s how it is with _my_ wand. And even if you decide you don’t think that wands actually know anything, there is another class of magical objects that _unquestionably_ do.” He smirked, proud that he could wow her with his education.

“Well, that doesn’t sound very safe to me,” Hermione said primly. She regarded the wand in her hand. “Whose wand was this?”

“My uncle’s. My grandfather’s is on the table too, if you would rather try it.”

“I think I’ll try this one first.” She read another paragraph or two quickly before looking at Tom again. “I’m sorry—I would just like to understand something better. This estate belonged to your mother’s family? And they disinherited her for marrying a man who could not do magic?”

Tom nodded. “The word for them is ‘Muggle.’”

“But this is what I don’t understand. Did he die? What happened to his family? You lived with your mother in London for your whole life. Why did your father’s family not take you in? Were they poor?”

Tom scowled. “No. He died, and they didn’t like us because we _could_ do magic. They are landed knights. They just didn’t approve of magic. That’s what Mother told me.”

Hermione looked indignant. “That’s terrible to send their own flesh and blood away like that. Your parents would have been a perfectly eligible match. Well—at least your mother got the estate, and it’s all hers now and she is a baroness. It serves them all right.”

Tom gazed impassively at her. _“I_ wouldn’t marry a Muggle. I think most people are better off keeping to their own kind when it comes to that sort of relationship.”

Hermione looked abashed that she had clearly made Tom uncomfortable. She glanced at the book. “I would like to try this spell—changing the color of something. It seems very useful.”

Grateful for the change of subject, Tom turned his attention to watching Hermione attempt spells and—occasionally—helping her with the precise movement of the wand. She had a very good grasp on Latin and had no difficulty pronouncing spells, he noted. As she experimented with magic, he found himself enjoying her company, and not just to play the role of a superior or a teacher. She was very talented and a quick study. It was a shame that horrid Lord Malfoy and his Wizards’ Council of invaders and toadies would keep her out of Hogwarts. Slytherin, perhaps, had not been quite correct on this matter, Tom considered—or perhaps he just had not known any witches or wizards of Muggle parentage who were very skilled. Tom could see the point of keeping students of limited ability out of the school, and maybe Slytherin had assumed that all Muggle-borns would be unskilled if the only ones he knew were. _He would have changed his mind if he saw what Hermione can do,_ he thought, watching her levitate a book on the first try.

* * *

Merope had been watching the interactions. Surreptitiously, she had cast a spell to allow her—and only her—to hear what the young people were saying. Tom was a bit of a show-off, she knew, and not always the most considerate of others when he was exhibiting what he could do or what he knew. She wanted to know immediately if he acted in a way to make Hermione feel bad.

She had been concerned when he had brought Morfin’s wand to Hermione. That was very unlikely to work well. Morfin had been a pureblood supremacist, and his wand was probably still hostile to someone like Hermione. He had died fairly recently, after all. Tom might have done better to bring Marvolo’s wand out….

Ah, so they were discussing the main theory of wandlore. Tom was showing off, but at least he was not being obnoxious about it, and Hermione was sincerely interested.

 _“Another class of magical objects that unquestionably do.”_ Merope’s eyebrows rose at that. What had he been reading? If he was alluding to what she thought he was…. _Well,_ she reflected, _he is thirteen and a half, almost a man. He’s old enough to know about old ritual magic, even dangerous kinds._ The realization that her son was so nearly grown—tall, handsome, _so_ like his father—made Merope feel a pang for a moment, but that was life.

She winced as he told Hermione that his father was dead. It was not true, as far as she knew… but what good would the truth do him? Better that he think his father was dead than know otherwise.

_“I wouldn’t marry a Muggle.”_

Merope stared at the young people. An idea had just entered her head as she remembered something specific that Armand Malfoy had said… and something that Lord Granger, sitting near her, had said on the same topic.

Merope was not sure if she was technically even married anymore. Sir Thomas might have procured a divorce and simply not informed her of that fact—but then again, he might not have. Either way, she had no plans to remarry, certainly not to marry a wizard. As the odious Malfoy had pointed out, any children of such a union would inherit instead of Tom, and she could not stand that idea. That was grotesquely unfair to him. Tom was the heir of this castle—the last heir—and that meant he would have to marry.

So Tom thought that people should “keep to their own kind” in marriage. Although she _certainly_ did not regret her elopement, Merope could not really say that she disagreed anymore. It was much better for marital harmony if they had something as important as the ability to do magic in common with each other.

 _None of the pureblood noble families would consider him, since he is half-blood,_ she thought. _And while I myself would not object if he married a witch of common background, it would weaken his standing further among our new peers if he did. Besides, he does not seem to have any real friends at Hogwarts, let alone a sweetheart. He does not form attachments easily._

She looked again at Tom and Hermione. They really were getting along well, and Tom seemed to be genuinely enjoying the company of a magical person near his own age who respected and admired him. His fellow students at the school probably did not, either because he was half-blood or because he was in Slytherin. The interest he was showing in Hermione was more than Merope had seen him show for anyone.

She needed to see Severus at once, she decided—but first, she needed to ask the Grangers some questions privately. There were several Muggle servants in the castle, but after a moment’s consideration, Merope decided to summon the two house-elves to watch Tom and Hermione because of the magical factor. Then she ushered her guests to her new study.

Lord Granger regarded her curiously. His lady, on the other hand, was giving Merope a very shrewd and canny look. Merope wondered if the woman anticipated exactly what this was about. It was possible.

“I could not help but notice,” Merope began awkwardly, “that our children were getting along extremely well in the library.”

The Grangers nodded.

Merope decided to get right to the point. “I did not see a ring on your daughter’s finger, but I have to ask—what are your plans for her? If you have decided?”

Lady Granger smiled and nodded, apparently confirmed in her guess. Her husband spoke. “My daughter, as you probably know, is our only child, and… we do not expect there will be others. Your people—that is to say, people like our daughter, people who can do magic—may allow women to inherit fiefdoms and hold ruling titles, but unfortunately for our Hermione, we ‘ordinary mortals’ do only if there are no other heirs. My estate and title will go to my younger brother’s son. We might have considered a match between them, but he is her first cousin through both father and mother—my lady’s sister is my brother’s wife—so it would be inappropriate.”

Merope winced and then hoped that they did not notice. Her own ancestors had been guilty of rather worse.

Granger did not appear to have seen. “Besides, he is much older than our daughter and was tacitly betrothed before she was even born. In short… we have been concerned about Hermione’s future. If I may say so, we were especially concerned when she manifested magic, at least until we learned that there were noble heirs at that school in Scotland. But… we have no ‘plans’ as yet for her.”

Merope smiled. “Do you remember what Lord Malfoy said at the hearing?”

Granger regarded her evenly. “I do indeed. Are you proposing a betrothal between your son and our daughter? Do you believe this would satisfy Malfoy?”

Merope demurred. “I will need to review the law on that point to be certain, but even if it does not, what do you think of the idea in itself? To be frank, my lord, my son will need a wife, and your daughter will need an establishment. She would be lady of the castle someday here. The fief is wealthy, and it is _very_ secure, protected as it is by magic. As for the young people themselves, they appear to get on… they have magic in common… they have noble blood… and if they were betrothed, she could be fostered here without question or scandal and learn magic here even if the law does _not_ permit her to go to Scotland. What say you?”

Granger took a deep breath. He gave a single glance to his wife. She nodded briefly, and he began his reply. “I think it is a sound idea. It is comforting to think of her with a husband who is… like her… and who is also of suitable background. I am sure that you will be teaching him about matters of ruling…?”

“Of course,” Merope assured him. _As soon as I learn what I need to know myself._

“I dare say that Hermione knows a great deal about it herself,” Granger continued, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She is certainly a sponge for knowledge. Yes. This is a good idea. Of course, we will need to write out the details in a formal contract, including terms for her dowry, an expected date for a marriage, mutual defense clauses, and… personal property?” he added uncertainly.

“Certainly, she could have property that was her own. In the wizarding world, witches always own their clothes, jewels, animal familiars, portable property, tools of magic—like a wand and a cauldron—and books. That is our law—and even Malfoy formally declared her to be a witch, so it applies to her. Anything else, any items of furniture, could be designated hers too, if you wish.”

The Grangers nodded, very pleased. “We should get to that as soon as is practicable, then,” he said.

“Yes—but let us first see what is officially wizarding law about admission to Hogwarts,” Merope said. She was also pleased with how smoothly this had gone. She had barely been in possession of the title for a week, and she had already negotiated an agreement with another noble family, provided for her son’s heirs, and helped a deserving young woman. It made her feel proud of herself.

 _I haven’t told Tom about it,_ she thought—but she instantly pushed that idea away. He had to know that something like this was likely. His schoolmates in Slytherin were mostly aristocratic. Besides, he obviously liked Hermione.

Merope called a servant to the study to summon Severus. In a few minutes, he was there, solemnly bearing the official Codex of Wizarding Law for their country. He set the heavy tome down on Merope’s desk and turned to the section concering Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He soon located the relevant passage.

“‘The wizarding Viceroy to the Crown has an agreement with Scotland to admit young witches and wizards from Britain and Ireland to Hogwarts School,’” Severus read, “‘and such admission is granted to all young persons of magic who have a grandparent who is a witch or a wizard.’”

“That,” Merope interrupted, adding as an aside to her guests, “is because occasionally magic skips a generation. It’s rare, and oddly it seems to be more common in children of pureblood couples, but it does happen. You may continue, Severus.”

“‘Out of concern for the purity of blood of our most ancient families, other young witches and wizards, who cannot claim descent from at least one magical grandparent, are not permitted to attend the school unless they are in an official betrothal to a witch or wizard who is of documented magical descent.’ It is straightforward, then,” Severus said.

Granger shook his head in disgust. “That is completely illogical,” he declared. “Lord Malfoy wants to protect the ‘purity of blood’ of wizarding nobles, so he does not allow young people like our daughter to enter this school— _unless_ they are betrothed to a witch or wizard! If he thinks a girl like my daughter is of ‘impure blood’—and I very much wish I could meet him sword-to-sword for that—then he shouldn’t want her to marry a wizard at all. There’s no sense in this law.”

Merope smiled grimly. “I don’t think that he meant it to make sense. Before the Conqueror, the school admitted all young people who could do magic. I think he wanted to leave the possibility in the law, to maintain some degree of faith with the magical population of England, while creating a legal stipulation that hardly anyone could meet. A Muggle-born of common birth probably would not know any families whose children had magic. There were some old magical families who refused to swear fealty to Lord Malfoy and lost their lands, but they are scattered, and it’s their custom—if their children marry witches or wizards at all—to let their children find their matches at Hogwarts.”

The Grangers nodded in understanding.

“Most wizarding nobles are pureblood and marry amongst themselves. Tom, in fact, is the only one I can think of who is not….” She trailed off, suddenly cognizant of the fact that Severus Snape was half-blood and his family had been unfairly stripped of their noble title. She would restore it, then, and soon. “In any case,” she concluded, “I think that in writing this law, Malfoy simply did not consider the possibility of a Muggle-born of noble birth, who would have the resources of a noble— _or_ that there might one day be eligible wizarding families who did not share his views. He must have thought he had stripped all of those of their titles.”

Granger shared another look with his wife before asking a final question. “Do you believe that, perhaps, Malfoy will care less about this situation because your son is half-blood? Since he claims to be concerned with keeping ‘pureblood’ magical families that way, perhaps he is not concerned with anyone else?”

“I hope that is the case. What do you think, Severus? You have studied the law for several years.”

Severus considered. “I think that you are correct: Malfoy cares more about ‘purity of blood’ in families that he already deems so, especially nobles. But he might—probably will—be angry at the fact that you _did_ exploit his own law, and he does have the right to change it. I do not think he _will…_ but you will not be making a friend of him by doing this.”

“Armand Malfoy would not count anyone in this room as a friend,” Merope said. “I am not worried about someone who will never approve of any of us. This provides for the young people’s futures, and it should get Lady Hermione the magical education that she deserves.”

* * *

The Granger family had planned to stay at Parselhall for several days, so that evening, they were shown to their quarters to prepare themselves for dinner. Merope would have her talk with Tom in private before the meal, and Hermione’s parents could do likewise with their daughter.

Hermione had been reluctant to set Morfin Gaunt’s wand aside in the library even though it still had not taken to her. She had just had such fun practicing magic. The whole day had been wonderful. Even if she didn’t get to go to the school in Scotland—as lovely as it sounded—she surely would get to learn magic in this castle.

And something else had occurred to her as the afternoon wore on, and she and Tom were left in the library under the care of the house-elves. _Such interesting creatures,_ Hermione had thought upon seeing them. She rather wanted to know more about them… but in good time. As soon as possible, she meant to go to her parents and ask something of them.

She _liked_ Tom—Lord Thomas, she supposed, but he wanted to be called Tom. He had started their acquaintance playing the know-it-all, but she perfectly understood why someone who knew a great deal would want to talk about it. She had been called a know-it-all herself by her cousins. His knowledge was very helpful, and it had not taken long for his attitude to her to change and become more familiar and friendly. She could tell how impressed he was that she had natural talent for magic—and, if she were honest, she was proud of herself too. She _really_ wanted to go to school with him in Scotland.

And perhaps there was a way! She had been so humiliated and upset at the hearing that she had thought little of what that Lord Malfoy had said to her father, but she remembered now. Maybe they could fulfill his terms. She was almost thirteen years old, and she knew that her parents were starting to think seriously about finding a match for her. Tom was extremely suitable, and a wizard at that. And she liked him, and thought he was… _handsome,_ she thought with a blush… and she was pretty sure that he liked her.

At least, he saw her as a potential new friend.

That evening, Hermione knocked on her parents’ bedroom door in the Riddles’ castle with a question in mind and nervous flutters in her stomach. When they admitted her and inquired as to what she needed, speech momentarily failed her.

Then she recovered her courage. She smiled at her parents. “I wanted to thank you for bringing me for this visit, first,” she said in her most ladylike tones. She supposed it was not usually necessary to be _so_ formal with them in private, but the occasion seemed to demand it. “I had a lovely afternoon with Lord Thomas. I think we are going to be friends… and I….” She trailed off as heat crept unwanted into her cheeks. Suddenly she could not keep up the façade of formality. “Could you please try to set up a match with him? I haven’t heard anything from you about anyone else… and it’s very suitable… and it might even mean I was allowed to go to the school of magic in Scotland. And I like him,” she ended in a near-whisper, her face flushed red.

Her parents exchanged a single look and burst into laughter. Hermione wanted to melt into the floor in embarrassment.

“Oh, my dear, we were not laughing at you,” her mother quickly assured her, getting up from her chair and giving Hermione a quick hug. “We were merely laughing because… we have already done it.”

Hermione gaped at them. “Already?”

“His lady mother mentioned the idea to us after we left the library and those creatures replaced us as chaperones. She had observed your… acquaintance… as well. We were going to tell you before we have dinner with the family, and it is going to be announced formally at the table.”

Hermione was still blushing hotly, but she could not stop smiling. “That’s wonderful! I’m so glad. I like him, and we have a lot in common…. Do you think I will be allowed to go to school?”

“We hope so. The law says you will be, so you will go unless this Lord Malfoy changes it specifically to prevent you from going. And Lady Riddle does not think he would do that.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself in joy and satisfaction.

* * *

As she prepared herself to break the news to Tom, Merope became nervous. Tom was a very strong-willed and independent young man, and he was not always easy to read. It had certainly _looked_ to Merope that he was enjoying Hermione’s company, but what if it had been merely for appearance’s sake? Tom certainly knew how to act the gentleman.

 _The only way to know is to tell him,_ she thought. _And I’ll have to tell him anyway, because I could not possibly surprise him with something like that at dinner._

While their guests were preparing, Merope steeled herself for the discussion. She knocked on Tom’s bedroom door and entered when he responded.

His desk was piled high with books. Merope was tempted to look at them, to see just what he was reading, but she had a more important matter at hand. She took a seat in a chair with green velvet cushions and regarded him seriously.

“Tom,” she began, “I need to talk with you about something very important.”

He glanced at her. “I’m listening.”

She took a deep breath. “Our guests and I noticed today that you and Hermione were enjoying yourselves in the library, practicing magic. She is quite talented.”

“Yes,” he said briefly. “I was… impressed. I know that we’re descended from Slytherin, but I rather wish she could go to school at Hogwarts. There are many people there I know who, frankly, deserve to be there a _lot_ less than someone like her. They’re barely wizards and witches, or they barely try to learn anything.”

“Yes… I do not doubt that,” Merope agreed. She leaned forward. “Well, as it happens, Tom, we think she _will_ be allowed to go to Hogwarts now. You might remember what Lord Malfoy said at their hearing, that she would be allowed to go if she were spoken for by a wizard.”

Tom’s face suddenly turned stony. “Mother,” he began, his words cold, his tone a warning.

 _Oh, no, this is bad,_ Merope thought, but she knew she had to finish it. “And to be quite honest with you, Tom, now that you are the heir to a title, you will have to marry someday. You have not seemed to have prospects at Hogwarts, and you were getting on so well with Hermione… so her parents and I have written up a betrothal contract for the two of you—”

Tom exploded. “Are you completely mad? I _just met her!”_

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me! You wouldn’t marry _now,_ anyway. Both of you would finish your magical education. And no, I am not ‘mad.’ This is hardly unusual, Tom.”

He stood up and stormed aimlessly around the room for a moment, then turned and glared at her. “It’s ‘unusual’ for _me.”_

“You are a noble heir now—the _last_ heir, the only heir. You have to marry. You are the only one who can continue the line after me.”

Tom stared at her in fury. “Right. That’s one thing, but then as soon as we become nobles—literally, within one _week,_ you decide to choose my wife for me?”

“Wealth and power come with new responsibilities!” Merope exclaimed. “It’s important to marry well—to have bonds of alliance, and to have a partner of similar background. Even though we have lived a hard life, you have noble blood, and a fine mind, and so does Hermione. Neither Muggle nor wizard nobles would respect you if you married a peasant.”

He gazed at her scornfully. “You know, Mother, I seem to recall that you didn’t let your father choose your husband, and that _he_ was a Muggle.”

Merope blanched. “My _father—”_ She collected herself before she blurted out more than she intended. “My family, as you know, held the sorts of views that Lord Malfoy holds. I was disinherited because my husband had no magic. He was a knight, though. It wasn’t unsuitable.”

“So your father didn’t have someone else in mind for you?” Tom said skeptically.

“My family disapproved of everyone except pureblood wizards who shared their opinions exactly,” she evaded, trying to put enough confidence into her words that Tom would think it answered his question negatively without actually having to lie to her son. “Do you have a sweetheart at school, Tom? Is that it?”

“No,” he bit off sullenly.

“And I know you were enjoying your time with Hermione.”

“We got along well,” he admitted. “She’s very smart. We could be… friends.” The word sounded unfamiliar to his own lips, but not unpleasant. He continued, “But I just don’t like that you want to pick my wife for me. Perhaps _Hermione_ grew up expecting that, but I did not.”

Merope sighed and rubbed her temples. That was a fair point, and even though her mind protested that she had exceptional circumstances, she was feeling his prior charge of hypocrisy. “All right, Tom,” she said. “I’ll make a bargain with you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“The agreement states that, barring urgent necessity, there would not be a wedding until you and Hermione have completed your education. That’s likely at least four years from now, perhaps five, if she requires five years. That is several years for you to _get_ accustomed to the idea and to her… and it should let her obtain the education that should be hers by birthright. If, at that point, you still truly do not want to go through with it, I will break it off for you.”

Tom considered, then nodded. “All right. It’s a deal.”

“You are not to tell her—or anyone else—about this deal,” Merope warned. “The Grangers would consider the betrothal agreement a bad-faith contract if they learned. Frankly, so would Lord Malfoy and the Wizards’ Council. And since I _am_ making this bargain with you, I expect _you_ to make an effort to become friends with her, and I hope that it will become more, though I know that cannot be forced.”

Tom nodded stiffly. He had four to five years. That was plenty of time; he did not have to worry about this _now._ He wasn’t going to be married off immediately. “Regarding Malfoy,” he said. He met his mother’s eyes with his own. “What if Malfoy changes the law in response to this gambit, so she isn’t allowed into Hogwarts anyway? He can do that.”

Merope took a deep breath. “I think he won’t,” she said. “He has this justification written in the law because he understands that, prior to the Norman conquest, Hogwarts allowed all witches and wizards to attend. To avoid unrest, he must not have wanted to write a law that completely defied three of the school’s founders, so he left an opening… but he assumed that any Muggle-born youth would be of common blood and would be isolated from commoner magical families. I think he must not have ever considered that Muggle nobles could have a magical child. But… even if I am wrong, and he does change his own law in response to this… then Hermione will still have the protection and alliance of our family, and she _can_ be tutored here… and everything else that I said still holds true.” She glanced at him and noticed, with some relief, that some of the anger had dissipated from his features. “Tom, you admitted yourself that you enjoyed spending time with her today. I ask you, please, for however long you remain annoyed, not to take your frustration out on her. Don’t think of it, if that helps. Just think of her as a friend—as she was this afternoon.”

Tom considered for a moment before nodding.

“We are going to announce this at dinner, which is why I wanted to tell you in advance. I expect it will be served in about half an hour. Please be washed and ready.”


	4. The Many Forms of Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, so good with keeping to my schedule.
> 
> Thank you for your support! In case you are worried about whether a story spanning 4-5 years will actually be finished at this pace of storytelling, know that the pace of this story is going to pick up very soon. I just need to describe certain events as they unfold.

The grand banquet hall had stone walls over thirty feet high and narrow-paned windows. A vast banner bearing the crest of the Gaunt family hung on one wall. Merope intended to design a new one for the new house she was founding, one that reflected the Gaunt and the Muggle Riddle crests but incorporated new elements too. The castle’s staff and field workers ate at the common tables, with the family, their honored guests, and their comparatively few vassals—Marvolo and Morfin had driven away many—at the high table. They had eaten there most days since moving in, and naturally they had to eat there for important occasions such as this one, but henceforth they would usually eat in the much smaller private family dining room.

There was real hope among the common folk that a new era was upon them, and to them, their new Lady Riddle’s choice to contract an alliance with a family completely unallied (and unrelated) to the deceased Gaunts boded well. It still seemed right and proper to them that the future consort of the heir could do magic—they were accustomed to being ruled by witches and wizards—but neither their new baroness, her heir, the heir’s betrothed, or _her_ parents seemed to exhibit the attitudes that had left Marvolo and Morfin with no sincere mourners among the peasant folk. Merope had made her announcement to all her subjects, to much applause from them and a stare of utter malevolence from Tom that, fortunately, no one had seen. Tom’s thoughts were entirely different to those of everyone else in the banquet hall.

 _What good is her bargain with me if she announces this in such a public way?_ Tom fumed. Over the years, he had had more self-confidence than his mother, so he had used this to get his way about a great many things: the freedom to wander about the wizarding district of London, to read any books of magic that he could understand, to save up his pocket allowance to buy a serpent familiar eventually. He sighed inwardly at the thought of the small pile of Sickles and Knuts in an earthenware jar. He had not saved the necessary amount, and now that they had come into the title, his little bank—which had formerly seemed like so much money—was laughable. He could buy many animal familiars now if he liked; his years of saving had ultimately meant nothing. However, his mother _had_ let him do it, even though he had to talk her down from her opposition to the idea of a snake in the house. Apparently she had bad memories of her brother and father setting adders on people for amusement.

Tom had been good at getting his way for any matter other than luxury expenses that his mother could not afford, but now, suddenly, his mother had revealed that she had a bullying side of her own—and a manipulative one, to boot. How else to explain what she had done, telling him that she would let him out of the contract, and then making a public announcement—and creating the expectation in all her subjects that the marriage would happen—that would make breaking the contract humiliating in the extreme?

He stewed and seethed through dinner. He was seated next to his mother on one side, who sat proudly with the emerald tiara of her regnancy on her head and wearing a gown that he did not recognize, made of rich embroidered taupe linen. Apparently she had finally found her old wardrobe sometime between her conference with the Grangers and dinner. On his other side was Hermione, who was pink in the face and smiling in a way that Tom found insufferable. _Happy as a lark in spring,_ he thought sourly as he shoveled down a spoonful of vegetables. And the blushing of her cheeks—and her reluctance to meet his eye, only to blush even redder when she did—made it clear that her happiness was not only about presumably being permitted at last to attend Hogwarts. It infuriated him.

 _This frizzy-haired noble brat immediately sinks her claws into me, as if I’m property,_ he fumed. _Though I suppose that is exactly how they see their children. What was it Mother said, that I had to marry to carry on the line? As if all I’m good for is siring offspring—or a means to get someone else into Hogwarts._

He swallowed the last of his main course, which was thoroughly chewed in his steaming anger. While Hermione’s face was still hidden by that cloud of hair, he gave her a glare. He may have promised his mother not to take out his irritation on Hermione, but she had promised him something too, and it seemed very much to him that she had not meant it. Well—if Hermione kept her distance from him, he would not be rude to her, but if she started to attach herself to him as if they had chosen each other, then she would suffer the consequences.

* * *

The Grangers needed to rest after their travel, so Tom did not have the chance to see Hermione again that evening. He expected that he would continue to fume in his bed late into the night, but to his surprise, he realized upon getting under the covers that he would fall asleep quickly. The bed was not ideal; it was one discovered in an otherwise empty room and temporarily moved into his new bedroom until the grand oak bed he had requested was finished, but it was good enough for now. He could not imagine why he was tired, but perhaps anger had exhausted him. He was dreaming soon.

The following day, he awoke and immediately remembered the previous day’s events. By now, his memories of the enjoyable moments with Hermione were becoming corrupted by his anger at his mother. Even thinking of Hermione’s face brought a renewed surge of fury with the entire situation, and at that particular moment he was utterly certain that nothing would ever allay it. Proximity to Hermione would only annoy him further, since it was obvious to him that she believed she liked him, but distance from her would further rewrite his happier memories.

So although it was not usually in Tom’s nature to openly pick a fight—he preferred subtlety and cunning—he rather welcomed the interaction with Hermione that their parents blatantly arranged mid-morning for them, by going into the grand library once again and the adults pointedly secluding themselves.

Suppressing the visible signs of his anger, Tom gave Hermione an impassive, utterly emotionless look and turned to the bookshelves before him. He perused the titles with no intention of actually selecting a book.

Hermione was confused for a moment, but then she gave Tom a tentative smile and attempted to move closer to him.

He grabbed a book at random and yanked it from the shelf. Holding it as though it were a precious gold goblet, he carried it to the nearest chair and sat down without a word to Hermione. To his exasperation—but, he had to admit, mean anticipation—she followed him, affront and hurt spreading over her face.

Finally he met her eyes. He raised an eyebrow and said, with the haughtiest air of annoyance that he could muster, “Do you want something?”

Hermione was taken aback. “I wanted to read with you. What’s the matter? Are you unwell today?”

“I am perfectly well,” he declared icily. “I prefer to read in solitude. Find a book of your own if you must.”

Her eyebrows narrowed. “You read with me yesterday. Are you _sure_ you feel well?”

“I am certain. If you want to read, I am not stopping you.”

Hermione gazed at the book he had opened in his lap. He was not looking at the pages. She then noticed that the chair he had chosen to sit in did not have a match. The closest chair for her was twelve feet away.

“If you are well, then I don’t understand why you’re being so impolite to me and wanting to avoid me. We _should_ spend time together, considering the situation between us,” Hermione explained officiously.

Tom felt pettily satisfied that she had brought it up herself, in such a pedantic tone, and with a personal accusation into the bargain. _Perfect, just the provocation I wanted,_ he thought. “That’s a long time from now,” he objected, “and I didn’t ask my mum to pick a girl for me to marry.”

Hurt filled Hermione’s face. “You don’t like me?”

Irritation surged momentarily in him at what he first took to be an insincere sympathy plea, but then he realized that she really was upset. His face grew stormy as conflict entered his mind. “It’s not that. You’re a powerful witch, and I… enjoyed your company yesterday,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to think about getting married to anybody… and she chose for me.” He gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “So did your parents. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I always knew it was probably going to happen,” she said haughtily. “I was born when my mother was thirty-one, and now she’s too old to have any other children—so my cousin is going to inherit from my father. At some point… I won’t be able to live in the castle unless it’s on his charity, so I had to marry somebody.”

“That’s stupid,” Tom sneered. “There are plenty of witches who inherit. My mum, for one.”

“Well, then I’m glad that I’m a witch, because I like the wizards’ and witches’ tradition better. But I will _inherit_. I will get my parents’ personal property—but not the estate, family gold, or title. My cousin already had a fiancée, and he is my first cousin through my father _and_ my mother, so I couldn’t marry him. I have to be provided for somehow.”

“You’re a witch. You can provide for yourself.”

“They would consider it wrong for a person raised noble to have to do that.”

“My mum was raised noble, and she did,” he retorted.

“She shouldn’t have had to,” Hermione said decisively. “Your lady mother’s family was horrid to her. They never should have treated her as they did. She didn’t make a bad match. They dispossessed her only because your father wasn’t a wizard… and now she has the title, so ha! to them.”

“I still don’t see why that means your parents had to pick for you… or my mum for me.”

“That Lord Malfoy wouldn’t have let me go to magic school unless I was pledged to someone, and your mother wanted to help my family… and they wanted to help her.” Hermione’s lower lip quivered. “Our parents are nobles. It’s just what they do. Many families don’t care if their children are friends, or even know each other, but my parents promised me that they would not send me to someone I disliked….” She trailed off. “You said we were friends. I thought you liked me.”

Tom scowled, well aware that she was trying to manipulate him into saying it. “What if you meet a boy at Hogwarts that you like better than me?”

Hermione was shocked. “It would be wrong for me to consider other boys now!”

“That’s not what I asked. What if you did anyway?”

She stood up haughtily and glared at him. “I _won’t_ like any boy better than you, because I am a _lady,_ and ladies are honorable and keep their word.”

“It wasn’t _your_ word.”

“Yes it was. I went to them after we left the library and told them I wanted this… and I would bet that your mother asked you and you said yes!”

Tom glared back. He really wanted to tell Hermione about his mother’s bargain with him, but she would tell her parents, and that would get him in serious trouble. “It was only because she pressured me,” he said cuttingly. “She said if I didn’t, Lord Malfoy wouldn’t let you into Hogwarts.”

Hermione sniffled and looked down to try to hide it.

“She also said that I would need to marry someday because she had the estate back and I was the only possible heir. And I guess since I am half-blood, no pureblood witch girls would consider me, especially not the noble ones. You’re _less_ than half-blood, though, so it’s no wonder that you’re so happy at this prospect.”

Hermione was on the verge of crying. “Why are you being so hateful?” she exclaimed. She turned away as the tears fell from her eyes. “You liked me until our parents made their agreement, so I think you still like me and you’re just angry at your mother.” She wiped her eyes and whirled back around to face him. “I’m going to _tell_ your mother about this, so what do you think of _that,_ Tom?”

“I think you’re acting like a brat,” he sneered. “You keep saying that I like you. I liked the girl who read a magic book eagerly in the library and wanted to try spells with a wand. I don’t like whiny brats who tattle.”

Silent, irregular tears still coursed down Hermione’s face, to her clear embarrassment. She was flushed red, and her eyes fluttered shut at his words.

Tom suddenly realized that her parents might be able to see this. Nervously he looked in the direction of the Grangers and his mother, across the large library. Indeed, they were gazing at him and Hermione. It was not clear to Tom if they could tell that Hermione was crying, or if they had heard the argument—surely not—but he did not want them to walk over. Hermione’s parents would think ill of him for hurting their daughter’s feelings, and his mother would be furious with him. Whatever else he might think of the situation before him, he did not want others to see him as unfit or uncivilized. He had too much pride.

Hermione’s words suddenly registered in his brain, and he realized the truth of them: He _was_ just angry at his mother and was using Hermione as the target for it because she had been happy about the circumstances. Now that he was thinking about it, he realized that he felt no pleasure in making her cry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I did not actually mean that bit about ‘less than half-blood.’”

Hermione wiped her face and nodded wordlessly. She would not look at him. That… bothered him, though he could not say why.

“Hermione,” he finally said, “let’s go to a different part of the library, where we both have seats.” He offered her his arm.

She took a deep, shaky breath. “All right.”

* * *

Merope did not comment to Tom about what she was sure she had witnessed in the library. The Grangers—fortunately—had not interpreted it rightly, and had believed that Hermione was simply embarrassed, but Merope was quite sure that Tom had said something to her to make her cry. However, a moment later he was extending his arm to her to walk her somewhere else in the library, and then they were taking their seats in a cozy little nook. Before long, they were conversing—inaudibly to Merope, but obviously not in a hurtful way—presumably about the content of their books. Whatever had happened between them, they had patched it up. That was a good sign for the future, she decided. Logic and duty were all very well, but she did not wish a miserable marriage on her only child.

Perhaps Tom had already learned his lesson. He obviously did not like the immediate consequences of harboring anger—not even any punishment that _she_ might inflict, but just the shame of upsetting a girl whom, Merope was quite convinced, he did respect and like in some way, and who was not even the real source of his ire. Merope resolved to be patient. Eventually—and it might not be very long—his anger at her would dissipate too.

* * *

Dinner that evening was different. They ate in the banquet hall again, since they had the Grangers as guests, but Tom felt more… tranquil, he supposed… about being seated next to Hermione. Her appearance was back to normal too; gone were the flushed cheeks and incessant smiles. That helped. Although he knew that the choice of seating was deliberate and rather heavy-handed, part of their parents’ apparent plot to make them spend as much time with each other as possible during this visit, it somehow felt less obnoxious now that Hermione was responding in a way that he could respect.

It had hurt his pride to apologize to her earlier in the library, but he did not regret doing it. He wanted her to back off, to stop acting like an infatuated young girl when they barely knew each other, but he had not actually meant to insult her. It had slipped out, perhaps because he had heard such things from his own schoolmates directed at himself for a year. Immediately after they had come to that accord, and they had resumed reading books and discussing magic together as they had the day before, he had remembered again why he had enjoyed her company. It really was nice to be able to share this interest with someone close in age who was clearly very talented. While he was talking about scholarly matters with her, he could almost forget that their parents had devised a legally binding contract that—unless his mother let him off, or he did what she had done and ran away—would compel them to marry in a few years.

Perhaps his mother was correct, and he would come to see Hermione that way by then. It was possible, he supposed, when he thought about the matter rationally. But that was beside the point. She should not have done such a thing to him, noble or no. Tom knew that—as she had said—wealth and power brought new responsibility, but in his view, that only encompassed matters like ruling a village, planning defense strategies for the castle, or overseeing a household. It did not include any “responsibility” to marry the person his parent told him to. That still irritated him.

He tried to push the thought out of his head for now. It would do no good to pick another fight with his mother, since he had already wrung a concession out of her and he did not expect she would offer him more. Besides, even if she did, the only concession she could make above the existing one would be to repudiate the contract _now,_ and such a shocking reversal—after that public declaration last night—would undermine her when she was just starting as baroness, as well as hurting Hermione deeply and preventing her from going to Hogwarts. He was not overly worried about the Grangers themselves; a pair of Muggles could do little in retaliation, but he realized he didn’t want to harm Hermione—or his mother, or by extension himself. It certainly would do no good to continue targeting his anger at Hermione, who—rightly, he thought, with not a small degree of arrogance—was pleased to be engaged to him, and was a person he respected and… liked, he supposed.

He glanced at her as she sipped her watered-down wine delicately. She met his eye and gave him a shy, hesitant smile. He tilted his head slightly and returned a half-smile.

* * *

The following day, Merope herself was waiting in the hallway outside Tom’s bedroom just after he got dressed. Inwardly he sighed. She wanted something else, did she?

“Tom, please come with me,” she said in tones that were mild but still brooked no argument. “There is something that you need to do—in my office.”

Wordlessly he followed her into the room that she had set up for administration, ruling, and study. She closed the door behind him. He wondered what this was about; why all the secrecy? A house-elf could have relayed a message….

She gestured at a writing desk on which assorted shiny items gleamed in the morning light. Tom walked to it and peered at them, his suspicions rapidly growing as he drew near.

An assortment of rings lay on a piece of black velvet. There were several that, in Tom’s opinion, hardly counted as jewelry. One, in fact, looked very much like a piece of heavy wire bent into a circle and sealed together at the ends by magic. Another was badly scratched bronze. There were a couple of plain bands, one with a smooth cabochon of what looked like glass, and one that was actually quite nice—silver with a patina, and an emerald encircled by two snakes.

“These are the rings that I have found in the castle—other than the family crest ring, of course.” She was wearing that one, Tom noticed. “You must select one for Hermione. You should place it on her finger today when we seal the contract. Don’t worry if it’s the wrong size; I’ll adjust it with magic—or you can if you are confident.”

Tom’s irritation surged once again. He “must” select a ring? And put it on Hermione’s finger himself? It was perfectly obvious to him that, protocol or not, this was another way for his mother to bully him. So much for trying to forget about it and thinking of Hermione only as a friend, as she had said when she had first told him of the plan.

Scowling, he gazed at the rings. So she insisted that he pick it out himself and put it on Hermione’s finger? Well, then, in that case she should not have included the ugly, cheap, or damaged ones. He would pick one of _those_ and embarrass her. His gaze paused at the scratched and tarnished bronze ring, then the one that looked like wire.

 _But if I do that, I’ll look like a savage boor,_ he realized. _I might humiliate my mother, but I would also humiliate myself. And if Hermione does attend Hogwarts, everyone will see the ugly, cheap ring on her finger and ridicule me for giving it to her._

He glanced at the silver-and-emerald serpent ring. It must be fairly recent, since Parseltongue had entered the family line through Salazar Slytherin. That would explain the better condition of it, too. He sighed. As much as he hated to look compliant with all this, that was a ring that no one would be ashamed of. With a resigned scowl, he picked it up and held it between his thumb and index finger, gazing at his mother through narrowed eyes.

She nodded in approval—almost, he realized, as though she had planned this. He wondered if she had created that wire ring herself. She flicked her wand and summoned a box from the depths of a drawer somewhere.

“An excellent choice,” she said, taking it from him and placing it in the box. “It belonged to your great-grandmother. Come, let’s present it to Hermione.” She handed Tom the box and ushered him out of the office.

* * *

The Ceremony of Betrothal was ultimately a private affair, involving the two families and witnessed and recorded by Severus Snape. Tom was relieved that his mother had not summoned the entire staff—or village—to bear witness. She and Lord Granger affixed their signatures to the document, which detailed the terms for reciprocal defense of each other’s property—though Tom expected that _that_ was rather one-sided, since the Grangers were Muggles—the amount of gold for Hermione’s dowry, specific property terms, a deadline for a wedding that was two months after they both completed their magical education, and language giving the young couple the authority to designate the primary heir from their future children as they saw fit. Tom nearly choked at that clause and the picture it put into his head.

They were also going to have Hermione fostered at Parselhall for much of the time that they were not at school—assuming that she was, in fact, allowed to go to Hogwarts. There, she would get accustomed to the castle and the distinct business of the barony of Hangleton.

Prior to the private ceremony, Merope had taken Tom aside to explain this to him.

“I remember some details from my girlhood,” she had said, “but I have much to learn about the art of ruling, and I think it best that you learn it with me. Lady Hermione probably knows more than both of us about that subject, based on something her father said to me… so it would be sensible for her to be here for that reason too during the summers.”

Although the legally binding signature was her own, Merope had also determined that, as heir to the title, Tom should sign the contract too. Nobles who were witches or wizards kept information about their family affairs and the administration of their holdings largely within their own circle, so they were somewhat secluded from the doings of the Muggle nobility… but the Grangers were not magical. The protections—and as prejudiced as they were, Malfoy’s Wizards’ Council _did_ at least offer protection to the magical community from Muggle laws that countered their own traditions—did not apply to them. There was the possibility that, in the confusion of the ongoing Muggle war of succession, some greedy Muggle might not consider the signature of a woman valid and would try to force the issue with Lord Granger. That, after all, was part of the rationale of Stephen’s supporters, that Matilda had no right to rule the Muggles due to her sex. The idea of some absconding Muggle pervert getting his hands on Hermione disgusted Tom.

He wondered for a moment if this was a magical contract… but when he brought his quill to the parchment, he could not detect any magic at all. A good thing. He would have been _outraged_ at his mother if she had done _that_ to him. Trying to keep his countenance and not betray his frustration at his mother outmaneuvering him—and manipulating his pride and his sympathy for a person of magic—Tom signed his name to the document. His mother and Lord Granger pressed their family seals into wax drops at the bottom.

He then presented the silver ring to Hermione, holding his wand in his other hand. He was perfectly capable of shrinking it to fit her delicate fingers, and he did not want his mother to embarrass him further by doing that in his stead. His great-grandmother must have worn this ring into her old age, when her fingers would have grown arthritic and the joints knobby, because it seemed far too large to fit a woman’s fingers otherwise. He had already shrunk it a bit, in fact, so it would at least _appear_ to fit—mostly—on Hermione’s ring finger.

She was smiling broadly once again as he slid the ring on her finger and resized it, a white smile of genuine pleasure. In that moment, the thought flitted through Tom’s mind that she was… rather pretty. Perhaps it was the green gown she was wearing—he always liked green—but still, that smile….

He knew protocol, so he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles lightly and quickly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and then her smile shifted slightly, with one corner of her mouth a bit higher than the other. It was lopsided, but somehow this looked even more genuinely happy than the previous one.

 _I hope she does go to Hogwarts,_ Tom thought.

* * *

_The Wizards’ Council._

Armand Malfoy and the other members of the Wizards’ Council were not especially happy to see either the Grangers or the Riddles again, and to the credit of his intelligence, he apparently deduced why they were there together before being told, based on the sour look on his wrinkled face.

“My lord,” Merope said, her voice carrying a new confidence, “we come before this Council to inform you that Lady Hermione Granger, whom you previously declared a witch, has fulfilled the terms of both the Council and the law regarding admission to Hogwarts School. Her family and I have entered an agreement involving our children. As you may notice, Lady Hermione wears the betrothal ring that my son selected for her. We request a reversal of the Council’s previous decision concerning her acceptance at Hogwarts.”

Malfoy turned to his son Abraxas and to the other members of the Council, utter fury written on his face. Abraxas stepped forward, seeing that his father was too angry to respond.

“Lady Riddle, we will confer in private and inform you of our decision forthwith.” With no further comment, the Council huddled in a circle and cast spells making their discussion inaudible to the Council attendees.

The Riddles and the Grangers stood unafraid. The worst that could happen was that the Council would arbitrarily change the law, and if that happened, it would be unfortunate for Hermione—unfortunate that the young people could not attend school together and have that experience in common—but Hermione could still be educated in some manner at Parselhall.

Although they could not hear, they could observe. Armand Malfoy was gesticulating wildly, a blood vessel throbbing visibly through the thin aged skin of his neck. He was furious, and apparently advocating to change the law despite the Grangers’ fulfillment of its requirement.

 _This is more than just the decrepitude of aging,_ Tom thought as he observed the old wizard’s pinched face and withered skin. _Dumbledore doesn’t look this bad and he’s about the same age as Malfoy. It is meanness that did that to him._

Abraxas Malfoy, who was elderly in his own right but did not yet display the kind of visage that his father did, bore a more reasonable and conciliatory expression on his face. So did Arcturus Black. Rodolphus Lestrange, by far the youngest member of the Council, looked displeased but resigned. Unless the old man overruled all of them, it appeared that Hermione would go to Hogwarts.

The Council broke apart and returned to face their petitioners. Armand Malfoy did not go to the podium to speak; he was still too visibly angry. Instead Abraxas Malfoy came forward.

“It is the decision of a majority of the Council that your petition will be granted,” he said curtly.

Hermione burst into that pretty white smile again.

“Do be aware,” he said in severe tones, “that her continued study at Hogwarts School is contingent upon the continued existence of this betrothal agreement. Should it be voluntarily renounced… or should young Riddle die—”

Tom could hardly believe his ears. Was that a threat? Instinctively he reached for his wand, just to feel its reassuring presence, though he had no intention of using it at this moment.

“–then Lady Hermione Granger will no longer be permitted to be tutored at the school. Furthermore, if she fails to be declared a master by the instructors of the school, she will not be permitted to bear instruments of magic in public places unless she is a widow with one or more magical children that would need to be controlled. But your petition _is_ granted, and as such, she will be permitted to acquire her own wand and any other personal tools of the art that she needs. And now, this session of the Council is concluded. You are dismissed.” Abraxas turned away abruptly, followed by the rest of the Council.


	5. The Winds of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the reviews and new favs/follows! Here we have a long chapter with a lot of little bread crumbs dropped, so to speak. The story also begins to get a bit darker (though I should again warn that this is nowhere close to how intense it will get later).

After the departure of the Grangers and Riddles, the Wizards’ Council members gathered in a private room and discussed what had just happened. Armand Malfoy was still beside himself with anger at—as he saw it—being taken advantage of.

“I cannot understand why you would not consent to changing the law,” he groused. “You know that it was not intended to actually allow Mudbloods to go.”

“Nevertheless, the law is what it is,” Arcturus Black said. “We could change it, but at what cost? You may not wish to see it, my lord, but our power is fragile with this Muggle unrest. The Conqueror appointed you as his viceroy, but he is dead, and several of his sons, and we have been just separate enough from the Muggle nobility’s affairs—”

“And rightly so!” Malfoy exclaimed. “It was wise of us not to get caught up in that!”

“Of course. We should have as little to do with them as possible, which is why I hate that any Muggle nobles have produced a magical child. But because we have had so much autonomy, the Muggle crown now has little interest in protecting us—the members of this Council, I mean. The Grangers and Riddles might have tried to appeal to one of the Muggle pretenders to overrule us if we had changed the law. They might even have incited the common magical folk to their side… the Mudbloods especially… and that would probably mean that the Muggle war would involve us.”

Malfoy scowled, which was incredibly unpleasant on his face. “I still don’t like it. Even if that is what the law says, it isn’t what we meant. They know what we meant, and they’re defying us.”

“I agree with Lord Black that we had little choice,” Abraxas Malfoy said, “but I think it means that we should have changed the law before. We’ll have to change it after this girl completes her schooling.”

“Unless this Mudblood becomes a symbol for others of her kind to rally to!” Armand exclaimed. “Even in that hive of rebellion, Godric’s Hollow, the Mudbloods have generally accepted the idea that Hogwarts is not for them.”

“Some of them still marry into magical families,” Black pointed out, “at least, once the young witches and wizards return from Hogwarts to the village. It’s surprising, really, that they have not already exploited the law in that village. I suppose the common folk don’t have the property or power to dangle before their children to get them to accept arranged betrothals. And, as you say, my lord, the direct rule of Godric’s Hollow by your grandson Lucius has changed expectations there.”

“But I am still concerned about the effect this may have,” the elder Malfoy complained. “And now, an old noble family is going to be dirtied even further than it already was.”

“The son is half-blood,” Black mused. “There are no others in the family. It is tragic that an ancient family is no longer pureblood, but it was not of our making. Of course, there is the theoretical possibility that Lady Riddle might have another child, but that is unlikely. What pureblood noble would touch a thirty-one-year-old blood-traitor?”

“True,” grunted Rodolphus Lestrange. “I can’t think of any who’d want a witch who’d fucked a filthy Muggle. That dirt probably never comes off.”

Black chose to ignore the younger man’s vulgarity. “Perhaps, then, we should simply… give up the line of Gaunt. The family name is at an end, anyway. If the boy marries the Mudblood, then who among wizards would consider their children as matches? They would have to look to the Muggle nobles. Eventually, they would become all Muggle. Perhaps we should let them suffer the just fate of blood-traitors.”

Lestrange fell silent, evidently considering the idea. Abraxas Malfoy appeared to contemplate it as well.

Then Armand Malfoy wheezed out his displeasure. “They could just as easily change our customs by their bad example! The woman was from a fine old family, but it did not prevent her from turning blood-traitor. Others might follow. Then they wouldn’t have to turn to Muggles! We should eliminate the danger now.”

“With all due respect, your lordship, I cannot support killing the young people at school,” Black said. “The common families and the dispossessed are already simmering. An act like that could be a catalyst for organized rebellion—and with the Muggles at war over their throne, and making chaos of their own accord, it would be hard for us to put it down.”

Malfoy scowled, but he could not deny Black’s point.

Abraxas spoke. “My grandson Draco is going to attend Hogwarts. He, with your daughter”—he inclined his head to Lestrange—“could lead Slytherin House and keep the influence of Riddle at a minimum. The Mudblood will, of course, be Sorted somewhere else.”

They seemed to accept this. Although Armand Malfoy was still dissatisfied, he trusted to the leadership abilities of his own great-grandson to take care of the situation.

* * *

_A few weeks later._

Hermione was delighted to go to the shops in the wizarding quarter of London to purchase her supplies. Merope and Tom knew what she would need, and Tom had up-to-date knowledge of what subjects were taught at Hogwarts.

“Magic,” he explained authoritatively to Hermione as they strolled down Diagon Alley with his mother, “is like any field of knowledge in that it is constantly growing. The subjects taught at Hogwarts have changed since the four Founders. Now we have Charms and Curses, Potions and Alchemy, Divination, Transfiguration, Ancient Languages, Arithmancy, Herbalism, and Animal Husbandry—of _magical_ animals, of course.”

“That sounds very interesting,” Hermione agreed in heartfelt tones. “Which ones are you learning?”

“All of them,” he said with a smirk.

“Of course,” she chuckled. “I mean to learn all of them too. I completely understand. Which are your favorites, then?”

“Charms and Curses, Divination, Ancient Languages, and Arithmancy.”

Hermione twirled her new wand in her hands. “I wonder about the Alchemy part of Potions and Alchemy… has anyone succeeded at the discipline’s ultimate goals, then? The transmutation of base metals, or the creation of the Elixir of Life?”

“No,” Tom said. “And I hope no one does. While there was a time not too long ago when it would have been _quite_ nice to be able to create gold, my perspective on that has changed recently. It loses its value if everyone can create it with ease.” He smirked. “And the Philosopher’s Stone is only theoretical. Master Slughorn, who teaches the subject, likes the idea of the Elixir of Life, but _I_ rather think that even if it’s possible and it just has not been discovered yet, it would be a waste of time,” he said arrogantly. “There are two other ways—”

“Tom, that’s quite enough,” Merope said sharply. “You should remember your new status and mind what you talk about in public.” To Hermione, Merope said in a very low voice, “One of them is the drinking of unicorn blood. Although it does restore health, it places a terrible curse upon the life of one who does it, which cannot ever be lifted. It is basically considered a supreme act of diabolism, so people don’t speak of it.” She gave Tom a hard look. “Even those who like to show off what they know.”

Hermione considered that. “What about the other thing he was speaking of? What is it?”

“It’s an advanced ritual involving the soul. A great personal sacrifice, which should never be made lightly or for improper reasons, but reversible. Still not a topic to be discussed flippantly, such as to show off one’s knowledge,” Merope said, continuing to glare at her son. “And I can assure you, Lady Hermione, that these topics are _not_ typical of what you will learn at Hogwarts. I did not learn of them until my final year there. Tom has been reading.”

“I certainly have,” he said, affronted. “And I wasn’t going to blab loudly, Mother.”

Merope sighed and shook her head. Tom was a voracious reader, and she supposed that she could not fault him for that. It appeared that Hermione had it in common with him. That was good, she decided. She was in favor of anything that would help the young people bond. Tom was being civil and gentlemanly to Hermione. There was nothing to reproach in his behavior to her now, but it was hard to tell if he truly viewed her as a friend. Merope wanted him to have what she had not: a marriage between equals in stature _and_ ability, built on truth rather than lies, and supported by both families so that they would have stability and prosperity. She wanted them to bond as much as they could before school began, because she could not imagine them having that much shared time at Hogwarts. Hermione would not be taught alongside Tom unless she advanced _very_ quickly… although she might do just that, Merope conceded to herself. Still, it was all but impossible to imagine someone of her heritage in Slytherin House. They would surely be separated, so they needed to become friends now.

As if reading Merope’s mind, Hermione asked a new question. “How do you get Sorted into a House of Hogwarts?”

“They put a hat on your head, and it talks to you in a voice only you can hear and tells you where you should go,” Tom said.

Hermione was startled. “So it’s one of the kinds of magical objects that can think.”

“Yes.”

She considered. “Can you carry on a conversation with it through your thoughts?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “It wasn’t on my head long enough for me to do that… it told me my House pretty much instantly, not that there was any doubt… but I have heard of that, yes.”

“I see.” Hermione thought about that for the rest of their London trip.

* * *

As the summer wound down, Tom and Merope settled into their new lives. The Grangers remained guests at Parselhall for a while, but finally had to return to their own home. They departed without Hermione, promising to send some of her personal belongings by a servant until Merope assured them that it could be done more easily on her part. Her two house-elves were perfect for the job. After a grand dinner the night before, she saw them off, somewhat bewildered, but overall pleased with the results of their long visit.

Merope was pleased too, and not just because she had found an eminently appropriate match for her son over the course of that visit. She had picked Lord Granger’s brain—and Lady Granger’s, too, although she knew less—about matters relating to administration, ruling, and establishing herself as a figure of authority to a fief of peasants who had been cowed by fear rather than developing true respect. Her own life experience budgeting and managing a household, however small, was not useless, and she did remember a lot of what she read as a girl, but the Grangers’ knowledge was invaluable.

She could tell, too, that Lord Granger was correct about his daughter knowing a lot about the subject herself. If Tom was being a know-it-all and eagerly showing off his knowledge of magic, Hermione was starting to fall into the same pattern when it came to political and administrative knowledge.

“It’s very important to keep your vassals happy,” Hermione had mentioned one day after her parents had departed over a family breakfast, as Merope mentioned Severus Snape. _His_ situation was a matter that kept occurring to her and then slipping her mind as something else distracted her, some new demand in her highly demanding new life.

“I have certainly heard of lords who tyrannized their noble vassals,” Hermione had continued, somewhat officiously—though Merope could tell that was unintentional. “However, in nearly every instance, as soon as they realize that their combined power is greater than that of their lord’s, they act to undermine him or revolt outright. Not that I am suggesting yours would do that to you,” she had added at once, looking somewhat embarrassed. “But there seem to be very few loyal vassals remaining….” She had trailed off, obviously worried that she had offended Merope.

But Merope had not been affronted. Hermione was speaking good sense. In fact, her family’s vassals _had_ dwindled alarmingly over the years of her exile, whether because of being executed, sent away, stripped of their noble titles, or because they themselves chose to depart. A knightly family named Pettigrew had completely vanished, gone no one knew where. The Carrow family had been reduced to poverty and had gone to beg favors at the Lestrange family’s court, after—Severus had hinted—Lord Morfin had attempted to force Lady Alecto and Lord Amycus to serve him in bed, at the same time, while also trying to make them engage in activities between themselves for Morfin’s own titillation. Merope did not doubt it for a second; her brother had been completely depraved. She intended to bring the Carrows back in some capacity—they would be a useful source of intelligence about the Lestranges, too, if their loyalty could be restored—and to track down whoever was left of the Pettigrew clan.

There was no hope for a comparatively new knight who had no family name and had gone by the Norse name of Fenrir. He had been infected with lycanthropy, apparently as a sadistic punishment of Morfin’s for some probably imagined “offense.” It was long suspected that the wilds near Hangleton harbored all manner of dark creatures, including werewolves. Sir Fenrir had assumed the name Greyback after being forcibly turned, rumor held, and had embraced his new condition.

Severus Snape was now the only wizarding vassal that Merope had left—and he had been reduced to being an informal advisor, when he ought to hold a title. She held a private ceremony for him to swear the oath of fealty to her. He spoke manfully, his voice deep and strong, as he took the oath.

When she addressed him as Lord, a hint of a smile appeared on his face—which she did not fail to notice. It almost brought a matching smile to her own.

Despite raising him to a title, Merope still intended to learn about management along the way from Severus. He _had_ managed the estate—officially, following her brother’s death, but she strongly believed that he had managed it in truth for a long time before that. It would be a challenging line to walk between maintaining her own authority, treating him with respect, simultaneously respecting the knowledge he had to offer, and handling… whatever _this_ new thing was. Probably it was just the fact that she had not been admired by a man in years, so she was now interpreting a smile as that even though it surely was not. In any case, she could not let it grow, even though Severus now—by her own doing—had a title. _Tom_ was her heir, and she could not do anything to jeopardize that.

* * *

By the end of the summer, Tom was settled into his new life well. In fact, he mused to himself, it was almost as though he had never lived otherwise. He was meant for this life, he thought. He had always appreciated grandeur and splendor. He was born to bear the title of Lord.

There were certainly plenty of perks. His grand new bed was finished, and it was what he had hoped it would be: dark finished oak with heavy green-and-grey drapery, to match the colors of Salazar Slytherin and to reflect his proud Celtic heritage. Every day now, he wore fine robes of rich fabrics and deep colors. He had a tin tub of his very own that held so much more water than the pitiful washtub that they had also used for laundry when they lived in London.

And, of course, he had all the books that he had missed for the first part of the summer, when he first returned from Hogwarts. After being exposed to the library at the school, he had feared he would truly dread summers—but no longer. The Gaunt family library was as extensive as the Hogwarts one, and it was several hundred years older.

He had even become rather complacent toward Hermione. She had entered his life only a few days after he had taken up residence in the castle, so with the passage of time—even a couple of months—she became associated heavily with that in his mind. He was a young wizard nobleman; he lived in a grand castle with amazing artifacts and amenities; he had a young witch fiancée. It was part of the same package. He enjoyed her company, especially reading and practicing magic with her. She would not go to Hogwarts ignorant and incompetent, not if he had anything to say about it. It would reflect badly on him if she did, but also, he hated the idea of her intelligence and talent not being utilized fully. He liked spending time with her, and although he did not feel romantic feelings for her, he found the annoyance about the situation slipping away as the summer advanced. He didn’t like the idea of major parts of his life being out of his control, but his mother had also brought him into wealth and power without his personal consent, and that was certainly something he didn’t mind. If he did have to marry, and it was obligatory for him to marry well, then perhaps it was for the best that his mother had taken care of it, he told himself. It wasn’t as if any witch at Hogwarts of comparable social status was considering him, even though he was their superior in ability in every subject. Perhaps his mother had just saved him a world of trouble. He didn’t have to “court” Hermione. Really, he had always thought that “romantic courtship” was a dangerous game in which people put themselves at risk of being hurt, deceived, misunderstood, and materially harmed in the worst case, as his mother had been. He didn’t have to play that degrading game to “win a witch’s hand”; he just had to treat Hermione well, and that he could do. The future… actually being married to her… well, he would think about that later.

Hermione had a room of her own now. The house-elves had brought many of her personal possessions that she needed, or to which she had sentimental attachment, and she had made herself at home. It was almost as if she hardly missed her parents. Tom wondered at that; he knew that noble children were often fostered at other nobles’ castles, but Hermione had not been until now. Perhaps she, despite her affection for them, saw herself as separate from them to some degree because she could do magic. Tom could understand that. She was continually surprised in the most pleasant way whenever she learned about something new that could be done with magic. He liked his fine new bath, but her joy at having a continual supply of water at her command, at any temperature she wished it, was amusing to him. She loved the library about as much as he did. He was certainly proud that their castle was so impressive to her.

* * *

At last it was time for Hogwarts to begin instruction once again. It was a bit odd to Merope that the school did not keep its young scholars there for most of the year, but there were many children whose families needed them for their small farms during growing season. Hogwarts was certainly egalitarian. There was nothing like it in the Muggle world.

She sent the house-elves to bring Hermione’s parents to Parselhall to say farewell to their daughter. It was amusing to watch the Grangers wobble slightly, disoriented by Side-Along Apparition, but the scene of family affection as they made their farewells almost brought tears to the corners of her eyes as she thought of her own son. At least he was not going to move out of the castle….

The elves bowed to Merope and promptly took hold of Tom and Hermione’s hands to Apparate them to the quaint Scottish village of Hogsmeade, where the young scholars would mingle until it was time for them to go into the castle.

* * *

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed at once as she saw the thatched roofs of the village—sealed from the elements by magic—and the grand castle in the distance. Young people were appearing in the street, sometimes with their parents or other adults, sometimes with house-elves. She immediately noticed that the ones who were escorted by elves were the best-dressed of the lot.

 _The nobles,_ she thought to herself. The idea that there would be so many people like herself and Tom lifted her spirits. A smile formed on her face—and then it faded. _What if they are all like Lord Malfoy?_ she thought anxiously.

The house-elves bowed to Tom and Hermione and disappeared with two pops, leaving them in the village. She turned to Tom questioningly. He had done this before. He knew what to do, where to go…. She surreptitiously reached for his left hand.

He looked startled as she tried to hold hands with him. “I’m not going to lose you,” he said at once, snatching his hand away.

A group of very well-dressed girls had noticed Hermione. One of them, a beautiful witch with curly black hair, sneered at her, her lovely features becoming quickly distorted by the ugliness of her expression. She pointed rudely at Hermione and said something to her friends, who all snickered in what looked to Hermione to be a very nasty way.

Tom noticed. He glared fiercely at the pack of young witches, then turned to Hermione. “That is ‘Lady’ Adelaide Lestrange,” he said, a sneer in his words at the title he did not want to bestow. “She’s Rodolphus Lestrange’s daughter—the youngest wizard on the Wizards’ Council—and she’s a right hag.”

“She disapproves of my… blood status?” Hermione asked, remembering the term.

Tom nodded. “Mine too. She also disapproves of me because her father is of Norman stock, and I have none in my family whatsoever, even on my father’s side. Their kind think we’re barbarians, although _they_ invaded _our_ country.” He glowered at the thought of it and gripped his wand tighter.

“I have some Norman heritage,” Hermione said quietly. “My paternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather were.”

Tom raised his eyebrows at her. “I see. Well… that would make a difference if Lestrange cared about it more than she does about magical ancestry. But she doesn’t, so you’re better off avoiding her.”

“I’d rather stick to you,” Hermione agreed, cheerfulness filling her voice again.

Tom felt a pang for her. The Sorting Hat was probably going to place her in Ravenclaw, he would guess, and she would miss him—but it was for the best, he told himself. He shuddered to think of what the Slytherins would do to a “Mudblood” in their midst.

* * *

Candles floated in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, and even though Hermione had lived in a castle all her life—and had lived in a magic family’s castle for the past couple of months—this was still awe-inspiring.

The Masters of Hogwarts were an interesting assortment, she thought. The teacher of Potions and Alchemy, Horace Slughorn, was Tom’s Head of House. Albus Dumbledore, the High Master, oversaw the school at large. Minerva McGonagall, who was ferociously Scottish, taught Transfiguration. Hermione paid somewhat less attention to the others, because these three seemed the most striking to her, but she did note that they included a very short wizard, a strangely garbed witch with an aura of affectation about her, and a somewhat grubby-looking woman who, before Hermione had learned of this mysterious community of people scattered throughout the British Isles, would have been her exact mental picture of a “witch.” There were others, too. Hermione supposed she would get to know them all in short order. But for now, she had to be “Sorted,” as it was called.

A few people came before her. When it was her turn, the teacher named McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on her head, and sure enough, it was as Tom had warned her: The object began speaking. It seemed audible to her, but she was also sure that no one else could hear. Well, it hardly mattered. She had made up her mind what she was going to do. It was the only honorable thing she _could_ do, after all.

 _“You are one of a kind at this school, Lady Hermione,”_ the Hat spoke. _“It took great courage on your part to come… yes, much courage indeed.”_

“Yes,” she agreed in thought, “I suppose so. But you know I should not go to Gryffindor.”

_“Not Gryffindor, eh? Are you sure? Ravenclaw, then? You are quite bright, you know. Perhaps you would thrive best among those of ready wit.”_

The Hat almost seemed ready to bellow out the word. Alarmed, Hermione interjected. “Not Ravenclaw either!”

_“No? You would do well there.”_

“Perhaps, but it would be extremely improper for me to be in a common room with other boys away from my fiancé.”

The Hat seemed to hesitate. _“Your fiancé is in Slytherin, of course. Indeed, he is a Slytherin, literally. You have some traits of the House in yourself—you have traits of all of the Houses—but you would face difficulties in Slytherin. You know not what you are about, Lady Hermione.”_

“I know that it is full of young scholars who would despise me because my parents are not magical, but Tom is there too. I need to be with him. And perhaps by being there, I— _we—_ can change their minds.”

_“That is very idealistic of you.”_

“Should I not be? Are you casting aside a fourth of your school?” she challenged.

_“My, my, how feisty you are. No, I see value in all the Houses. But it is my job to Sort the new students where I deem best. You would be with your Slytherin in Slytherin, yes… but you would truly need him, I fear.”_

“I should be with him. I can’t be in a common room with other boys unless he is there. And… I like him. I want to go through school with him… and I think that I should set an example for anyone like me who comes after me, that they can belong in any House of Hogwarts and excel.”

The Hat hesitated. _“You are certainly ambitious,”_ it conceded. _“Very well. Ambition and cunning are not the most prominent character traits of yours yet, but they will come in handy in your life, and we all have a choice about what we want to cultivate… so if you are very sure… SLYTHERIN!”_

It bellowed out the final word, then fell silent as McGonagall lifted the Hat from her head. She gazed out at the Great Hall and noticed that, unlike the Sortings before her, for hers it was deathly silent.

The students of her new House, except for Tom, were glaring at her as if they wanted to murder her. Tom was regarding her with something very much like panic.

She made her way to the table. No one moved to give her a spot, except for him. When she reached him, his expression had shifted to one of utter exasperation.

Fortunately, the witch after her, a girl in fine robes named Daphne Greengrass, was also Sorted into Slytherin, and she was more welcome there. That was a positive distraction, and while they were politely applauding, Tom hissed at Hermione in fury.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

She turned to him, smirking. “I convinced it, you mean.”

He gazed at her. “You have no idea what you just did.”

“I have an idea. I had plenty of reason to believe that no one would like me. After all,” she said tartly, “Lord Malfoy did not let me into the school at first.” She fingered the serpent ring on her finger.

He glared. “Watch what you say. His great-grandson is up there, and I have no doubt he will be in this house. But—fine. It’s done now.”

They watched the rest of the Sorting. The boy of whom Tom had spoken, Draco Malfoy, was indeed placed in Slytherin, to much cheering and smug satisfaction on the parts of most of the students there. It was apparently good when the direct descendant of the leader of the magical community was part of one’s House.

Unless, of course, one was not pureblood.

Most of the students did not take long to Sort. Hermione’s own Sorting had been one of the longest. But shortly after Malfoy, a boy with messy black hair took his seat on the stool, the Hat covering his head, and he sat there for a long time. The students in the hall began to murmur, as they did every time someone took a long time. The boy’s name was Harold Potter, which meant nothing to Hermione, but apparently many people liked to speculate about where a scholar would go based on where his or her family members had gone.

 _“Slytherin!”_ the Sorting Hat called out. McGonagall lifted it off the boy’s head, and once again Slytherin House was struck dumb. Weak claps sounded from the table. Hermione added hers.

“Who is that?” Hermione whispered to Tom as the boy made his way there.

“I have no idea. He’s not from a noble family.”

That much was apparent. Although he wasn’t shabby, his robes were not nearly as fine as hers, Tom’s, or—for that matter—most of the other Slytherins’. He reached the table and looked around for a seat.

“May I?” he asked Hermione politely, gesturing at the empty space on the bench next to her. She nodded, and he sat down.

The Sorting continued, with a couple more new scholars for Slytherin, but on the whole, the House was stunned at what had happened.

“What has become of this House?” murmured Adelaide Lestrange, gazing down the table with scorn at Hermione, Tom, and Potter.

Tom glared back. “I heard that, you know.”

Draco Malfoy spoke up. “How dare you address my cousin that way, churl.”

Hermione gripped her wand, but Tom had already drawn his under the table, though Malfoy could not see it. “I am not a ‘churl,’” he said slowly. “Apparently your grandfather and great-grandfather neglected to tell you of my mother’s reinstatement to her title.”

Malfoy sneered. “Your mother may be a noble, but she is a blood-traitor, _you’re_ a half-blood, and that Mudblood there has no business in Hogwarts, let alone Slytherin House.”

“Your great-grandfather’s own law permitted her to come,” Tom snarled. “And if you say that again, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“You dare to threaten me?”

“I won’t tolerate you insulting her or my mother. And this is _my_ House. Slytherin was my great-great-great-grandfather, and I live in his wife’s castle. And so does she.”

“The mighty have fallen indeed,” Adelaide put in. “And now, on top of having dirty-blooded nobles in the House, we have half-blood commoners in our midst.” She sneered at the new boy, Potter.

He ducked down, clearly not expecting Tom or Hermione to come to his defense.

“The Sorting Hat placed everyone at this table in this House,” Hermione declared, “and there is not one person in the school who isn’t allowed to be here.” She held up her left hand. “This is my betrothal ring. As Tom said, I am fostered at his home. My parents rule a fief. I am really not so different to the rest of you—”

Loud snickering spread across the table at that.

Tom gave her a hard look. He did not actually say “I told you so,” but Hermione realized that he did not need to.

* * *

The House was divided into a common room, a girls’ dormitory, and a boys’ dormitory. There were not that many students there, so everyone got to have a small bedchamber to himself or herself—something that Hermione was grateful for, after that dinner. She was worried that she would be attacked in her sleep if she had to share a bedroom. But perhaps old Slytherin had decided that it was undignified for the young aristocrats—the people he undoubtedly expected would be most of the scholars of his House—to share rooms. Perhaps the school simply had not grown enough that they had to double up. Whatever the reason, Hermione was glad of it. She found that her items had been set up in her room while she was being Sorted and having dinner, so she mustered her faltering courage, ignored the voice in her head urging her to hide in her new room, and headed to the Slytherin common room to find Tom.

He was nowhere in sight. Anxiously Hermione looked around the room for him, in vain. There were many young witches—and wizards—whom she did not know, and unfortunately, the only people whose names she could remember were Adelaide Lestrange and Draco Malfoy. She did not want to socialize with either of them. She had a feeling that their idea of socialization would entail magical bullying or worse.

The witch who had been Sorted immediately after her then passed by, and Hermione remembered that she was named Daphne Greengrass. She did not look overtly hostile. But she had not been introduced to Hermione, and she did not seem interested in making her acquaintance right now. Hermione sighed as she sat on a chair, wondering why she had not listened to her own mind and gone to bed.

The other half-blood boy—the one named Harold, she remembered—stopped walking in front of her and wavered, gazing at the unoccupied chair next to her.

“You may have it,” she said politely. “No one was there when I entered the room.”

He sat down. “This castle is a grand place,” he remarked, “though I suppose you would know about fine places… erm….” He trailed off, realizing he did not remember her name.

“I am Hermione Granger,” she said kindly. “And you are Harold… Potter?”

“People call me Harry. Pleased to meet you properly. It’s ‘Lady,’ too, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I suppose so. I don’t know if that is observed as much here…. My father is the lord of Castle Grange.”

“Are they really Muggles?”

“They are really Muggles. I’m sure you’re thinking about Lord Armand Malfoy’s law, but I was allowed to enter because of my betrothal to Tom— _Lord_ Thomas Riddle,” she clarified. “He has been here for a year already. He’s the wizard who spoke up tonight.” She glanced at him. “What about your family?”

He chuckled. “Compared to that, they’re nothing special. My father has a shop in Godric’s Hollow that my grandfather founded. Godric’s Hollow is a town that has a large number of magical people.”

“Godric’s Hollow… is that like Godric Gryffindor?”

“Yes, he lived there. He used to be the lord there—his family, that is to say. Now we’re ruled by Draco Malfoy’s father.” The tone of Harry’s voice indicated that he was not pleased about that circumstance. “Four generations of Malfoys. But I was interested in your parents because… well… my mother is like you. She is Muggle-born. She didn’t go to this school,” he added as he saw Hermione’s features shift in interest, “but she learned a great deal at home from the families in the village who did.”

“I suppose your parents were not engaged until later, then.”

He smiled wryly. “They tell me—joking about it now, of course—that they didn’t get on as children _at all,_ so no. And… I mean no offense by this… but villagers’ families don’t typically set up matches in advance. It wasn’t ideal for her, of course… and the Founders, most of them, would have meant for her to go. I think even old Slytherin would have seen it differently if he had known someone like her. She’s great at potions—she invented this potion to fix my vision that I take every fortnight. I can’t see well enough to read without it.”

“What is going on here?”

Hermione and Harry whipped their heads around. Tom was standing behind the chairs, glaring at Harry ferociously.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Hermione reassured him at once. “I was just getting acquainted with Harry Potter. He wasn’t threatening me.”

“I wasn’t worried about him threatening you,” Tom growled. He eyed Harry. “Be careful how you speak to her, Potter.” He almost spat the name. “And what you speak _of.”_

Harry stared levelly at Tom. “I wouldn’t say anything disrespectful of your engagement, Riddle. Or is it Lord Riddle?”

 _“You_ can call me Lord,” Tom replied with a smirk. “And I’m glad to hear this, and although I think it’s good for _Lady_ Hermione to make friends here—especially in this House—do make sure it stays ‘respectful.’”

Hermione stared at him in amazement, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead. He gazed back at her, a strangely intense look—possessive without romance—in his dark eyes, before he broke the gaze.

She stood up. “I should retire to my room, actually,” she said at once. Turning to Harry, she gave him a weak smile. “I was pleased to make your acquaintance. The three of us will have to eat meals together, I think.”

Tom muttered something inaudible under his breath, but he did not vocally disagree. He offered her his arm and escorted her to the door of the girls’ bedchambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who have read my other long Tomione fic—yes, I am indeed making Arcturus Black a voice of “reason” (or moderation, at least) in this wretched bunch. Feels odd to me too!
> 
> About that Diagon Alley conversation (since it probably raised some eyebrows): In common with my friend bainsidhe and a commenter on ffnet (thank you!), I think that what were later considered the Dark Arts were still acceptable in the mainstream, though regarded as more perilous than other magic. Also, consider that Flamel’s development of the Philosopher’s Stone was over two centuries later, and I suspect so were the Peverells and the Deathly Hallows. I can easily see drinking unicorn blood being considered the truly horrific thing to do, given that it provides only a “quick fix” in exchange for an unbreakable curse on oneself, whereas creating a Horcrux could be viewed as grim but sometimes necessary. In an era where the Anglo-Saxon remnant of the culture was only barely removed from the weregild as a fully legal practice, and _wasn’t_ even removed from blood vengeance being socially acceptable, I can’t see too many moral feathers being ruffled over the idea. The more pious Muggles wouldn’t like it if they knew of it, but I can’t come up with a good reason why witches and wizards (in general) would consider it detestable, given the one alternative they had.
> 
> Finally, I offer a heads-up warning for disturbing content in the next chapter.


	6. Rite of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter includes scenes of bullying and hazing, and this merits a chapter warning because they have been inspired directly by events in Stephen King’s _Carrie_.
> 
> There is also some straight-up elitist classism in this chapter, and it will be in future chapters as well, sometimes from sympathetic and likable people. I’m not going to modernize that for this fic, and this is the one warning I’m giving for it.
> 
> ETA: Again, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or subscribed to this story!

Hermione had had tutors before, but never in such fascinating subjects as the magical disciplines. As it turned out—perhaps because of the policies that the Wizards' Council had imposed on Hogwarts—pupils were apparently expected to have some basic knowledge even before they came to the school. They were expected to be able to clean themselves, which meant knowing water and heating spells. They were expected to be able to levitate objects and reduce the weight of heavy loads if need be, rather than struggling with immense stacks of large books. She was immensely grateful for even the few weeks spent at Tom's family castle practicing.

Instruction was unlike her previous tutoring at home in another way, too. As the young lady of the castle, she had had private instruction in languages, philosophy, history, music, and the like. Here, she was in a room with about twenty or so other young people, only a few of whom she even knew, since three-quarters were from other Houses. She did not have the tutor—or the Master, or the Professor—to herself. It was somewhat difficult to adjust to.

Tom was not instructed in the same groups that she was, either. It was unsurprising; he was certainly very talented and conscientious, and no doubt had advanced quickly during his first year. Hermione hoped that she would too.

She observed some of her schoolmates during the first two days, including the ones not in Slytherin—since it appeared that most of the other pupils did not associate with Slytherins (or Slytherins did not associate with them; it was not quite clear to Hermione what was actually going on).

The subjects that involved the most wand usage were Transfiguration, and Charms and Curses. The instructor for the former was the proudly Scottish McGonagall, who, it happened, could transform into a cat. Hermione had been the first of the group to deduce that the gray tabby cat was her teacher, a second before the animal stretched elegantly and shifted back into natural human form. Perhaps it was the eyes. Hermione had read about this magic in some of the books at the Riddles’ house, but to actually see it—

 _That would be incredibly useful,_ she thought longingly. _I wonder what type of animal I would become if I could do it._ Well, all the more reason to work hard.

The other wandwork course was taught by an exceptionally short professor, Flitwick, who was nonetheless frighteningly good at his subject. Hermione had also seen a person like him before, a member of a performing minstrel troupe that had entertained her household once while passing through. To witness such a person as a powerful wizard, doing magic, was a new idea for Hermione… but the ugly reactions of Draco Malfoy and two rather thuggish boys who hovered near him made it rather easy to accept.

“I can hardly believe that this place is allowing a deformed dwarf to teach,” Malfoy had sneered after the hour was up. “They’re fit to be court jesters, nothing more.” The goons had chuckled sycophantically.

No, it had not been that hard at all to side with anyone else that Malfoy thought “unfit” to be at Hogwarts.

But Hermione’s favorite class quickly became Potions and Alchemy. At this early stage, there was little alchemy; it was almost all potions. The teacher, Slughorn, showered praise on her almost as soon as he saw her first work—her and Harry Potter, who had also produced an excellent potion. _He must have learned from his mother,_ she thought with some envy. Harry’s work in that one class was better than hers—but hers was a strong second. That was the objective truth, even though Slughorn _did_ show favoritism to young scholars from his own House. It had not taken long for Hermione to observe that all the professors did that, though. And really, she could hardly blame Slughorn for being unimpressed with one of the houses that day, what with the smoldering, stinking, caustic messes that issued forth from the cauldrons of a red-haired Gryffindor boy and a second, awkward-looking boy from the lion house. That necessitated the early conclusion of that subject, as the Potions Master had to repair the damage to the stone tables.

As soon as the pupils were out of Slughorn’s earshot, Malfoy began to harass the unfortunate Gryffindors.

“Another useless Weasley,” he drawled to the red-haired boy. “Why do you even bother to come to Hogwarts? Your family chose years ago to renounce your magical heritage.”

“Eat shit, Malfoy.”

Malfoy laughed. “That’s no way to speak to your betters! Uncouth, savage English barbarian words.” He drew his wand to curse the other boy—Weasley—but at that moment, McGonagall turned the corner to enter their part of the hallway. Malfoy sheathed his wand again at once.

They had no instruction after Potions, so they were going to return to their Houses to wash up and put on nicer robes for dinner. The professors, including High Master Dumbledore, were very adamant about proper appearance and hygiene for dinner. To the highborn students such as Hermione, it was only a continuation of what they were used to, but to some it was probably the first time they had experienced grand banquets. Hermione did not know any such people in Slytherin, and she doubted that there were any… but it was apparent from the first day at Hogwarts that some of the young people in other Houses had never had rich food in their lives and did not know how to eat properly.

Hermione felt uncomfortable around these children. They were not _serfs,_ since their families could do magic, could obviously read, and valued education enough to send their children here, but Hermione could not imagine having anything in common with them other than magic itself. It was difficult enough to form connections with highborn young witches and wizards who had come from magical families, though she really thought she had more in common with them than they wanted to accept. The only real difference _they_ had was that her parents could not do magic, so she had not been raised with any traditions specific to those who could. Otherwise, their families appeared to hold very similar customs. How could she find any commonality between herself and a dirt-poor farmer’s child, someone who had grown up with a mother who made potions in a big family cauldron and a father who repaired a thatched-roof cottage and farm tools with spells? She would have no shared frame of reference—and really, they would not even be suitable companions. Harry Potter might not be aristocratic, but at least he was from an educated family. Indeed, the source of their income was magical craft. The shop his father and grandfather had built, he told her after Transfiguration on their first day, sold assorted hand-crafted magical artifacts and unique potions. His own manner of speaking was that of comparatively well-to-do townsfolk.

That did not make him acceptable to Tom, though. Tom had not refused Hermione’s suggestion that the three of them should eat meals together, but he hardly spoke to Harry the first full day except in an icy, unpleasant way. As Hermione headed toward the Slytherin common room to get herself ready to eat, she hoped that Tom would be in a better mood tonight.

* * *

Hermione had several fine robes. She donned a particularly pretty leaf-green one embroidered in gold and spring green, smiling as she combed her hair. She had not seen much of Tom all day, so she looked forward to evenings. It was sad to her that she did not get to see him as often as she would prefer, but… she supposed that she was much better off than many young noble ladies. She _would_ get to see him and talk with him every day. _And besides,_ she supposed as she walked into the common room, _we would probably get sick of each other if we had all our instruction together plus evenings._ When she had lived in his castle over the summer, they had not spent every waking minute in each other’s company. They would not do so after their marriage either, she realized. She was just happy that she had a match; it was _the_ milestone for a noble girl, and it was now achieved, so she wanted to exult in that fact, especially since she had picked the same person her parents had. _And also… well… I am infatuated with him personally,_ she thought with a flush of heat. It was an embarrassing realization, but it was true.

He was waiting for her in the common room, his handsome face expressionless. He did smile faintly as he extended his arm to her to escort her to the Great Hall. They left the Slytherin common room and headed down the stone corridor, which was lit faintly by magic-illuminated candles in recesses in the walls.

Faint chuckles echoed down the hall, coming from the general direction of the kitchens. Hermione wondered who it was. She hoped that she and Tom did not encounter an amorous couple who imagined, wrongly, that they had privacy. That would be embarrassing.

In a moment, they came face to face with Adelaide Lestrange and several Slytherin girls from her age cohort and that of Hermione. They were carrying large filled bags of cloth and animal hide. A strong scent of fermentation came from one. Lestrange’s eyes widened momentarily in shock at the sight of Hermione and Tom. Then, as a group, the girls turned and fled toward the Slytherin common room, continuing to giggle amongst themselves. For a moment Tom looked as if he wanted to pursue them, to find out what was in the bags, but he changed his mind.

“That smelled like drink to me. I bet they found a cask of ale in the kitchens,” Hermione said at once. “Should we tell Professor Slughorn?”

Tom scoffed. “If that’s all it is, then absolutely not. There would be no point. Let them get drunk and disgrace themselves, if it’s that. I assume you locked your bedchamber door.”

“Of course,” she said. “Do you think they’re planning to play a prank?”

“Hermione, if they did anything to you, it would be more than a mere ‘prank.’ I’m worried that they’re going to ambush you and curse you one of these days.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Well, I am careful. And I try not to walk the halls alone. You escort me to my first subject, and I walk with Harry to the others….”

Tom’s face had grown pinched. “Of course,” he said tightly.

He did not say anything else for the rest of the walk until they were almost at the Great Hall doors. Then he spoke again.

“I forgot to tell you, that’s a nice gown,” he remarked quietly. “Possibly my favorite of all of the ones I’ve seen you wear.”

She beamed, deeply flattered. She realized that this was the first personal compliment he had given her that was not about her talent, intellect, or skill at magic. She appreciated those too, of course, but this one….

“I don’t favor gold as much as silver for myself,” he continued. “Slytherin colors, you know. But it’s very… becoming… on you.”

He himself was garbed in much darker, cooler green with tiny touches of silver in Celtic-style knotwork on the edges. It made his naturally pale tone seem even lighter, but the effect was still good on him. “Thank you,” she said, managing to avoid gushing, to her own relief. “You look well yourself.”

He nodded confidently. “Yes. We make an attractive pair.”

No expression of gratitude for the compliment. _Well,_ she thought, _he never did show false modesty to me. At least he is honest with me… and he does see us as a pair._

They entered the Great Hall and swept gracefully toward the Slytherin table, where Harry Potter was currently standing. Dinner began on the hour, and the pupils were to stand until the professors entered the room. Hermione glanced around and noticed that Draco Malfoy clearly did not like this custom. His face was sour and resentful; no doubt he viewed himself as the most important person in the room. Hermione continued to observe and noted that the only younger Slytherin girls present were Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode. The rest of them must be in the common room—or someone’s bedchamber—with their contraband from the kitchen.

The professors entered in a procession, walking up the middle to the head table, where they sat. The students followed suit, and dinner began.

Hermione was seated between Tom and Harry, which she had thought would be a pleasant arrangement. She smiled at Tom first, broadly and proudly. Somewhat to her surprise, he returned it, though his smile was fainter and clearly tinged with more possessiveness and pride. She wished that he would warm up to her more than he had so far. She knew that she was not assured anything more than “a good match,” but her own parents had had an arranged marriage, and Hermione had never seen them expressing anything but warmth and kindness to each other in private. That meant that even in a betrothal contracted for strategic reasons, it would happen when the parties liked each other, and she had _thought_ that Tom liked her….

Pushing this concerning line of thought out of her head, she turned to Harry and gave him a friendly smile. Alarm passed over his face briefly. His gaze shifted slightly to one side as he faced her, but he managed a brief smile. Hermione followed his unsettled gaze to her other side and noticed that Tom was glaring harshly at the other boy for some reason.

She raised an eyebrow at Tom. He scowled momentarily but turned to his food. “Right, then.”

A new idea suddenly entered Hermione’s mind. There was really no reason for Tom to have taken such a dislike to Harry—a fellow half-blood Slytherin, who had appreciable magical talent, and who was being unfairly attacked by the snobs in the house. They should have been able to form an alliance for mutual protection and support, if nothing else. Hermione may not have been a “natural” Slytherin—she would grant that the Sorting Hat was probably correct about that—but it was obvious to her that all three of them, really, were better off as a team. It was irrational for Tom to alienate Harry… unless the idea she suddenly had was correct.

 _Could he be jealous of Harry?_ Hermione wondered as she began to eat. _Surely he realizes that there is no danger in a friendship between Harry and me. He does not have a title, and he is not trying to woo me away from Tom in any case. He knows and respects our situation. Tom should see that there is no threat._

* * *

Hermione was still puzzling over Tom’s behavior at dinner as he escorted her back into the common room. Dispassionately, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles lightly, perfunctorily, before seeing her off at the door leading to the girls’ chambers.

 _If he actually is jealous of Harry,_ Hermione thought as she headed down the corridor, _then why is he so cold to me? Is he angry because he thinks I prefer Harry?_ That idea was baffling to her. Harry was a nice young wizard and she could already tell that they would likely form a strong friendship, but that was all it could ever be. Why would Tom think she would prefer someone who could not offer her the sort of life she was born to, and make a choice that would go directly against the _contractual_ agreement of both of their families—an agreement she herself had asked for independently, at that? It made no sense.

Then she remembered the very first discussion—argument, she thought with a pang—that they had after their parents had told them of the plan. Tom had asked her—yes, spitefully, but still sincerely—what she thought would happen if she met another boy at Hogwarts that she liked better, in defiance of her family’s honor and her own. He did not see it quite the same way that she did, clearly. He apparently did not trust that she would have enough affection for him to stay faithful, and that honor alone might not be enough in the face of that. And yet… he had not liked it when she _had_ rather openly expressed her liking for him, either. Should that not have been a reassurance to him, rather than something to resent? It was all very puzzling, and she decided that she would need to talk with him seriously about everything sooner rather than later.

Hermione was almost at the door of her own bedchamber when the first rotten pear struck her in the back.

She whirled around, looking for the source, instinctively reaching for her wand. Then an unripe apple—hard and painful—whacked her in the back of the head.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, dropping her wand and rubbing the spot where the apple had struck.

A curse shot through the dimly lit corridor, knocking Hermione down. A girl’s unpleasant laughter filled the hall, which several other girls’ voices soon joined.

 _“Mudblood,”_ a female voice crooned. It sounded rather like that of Adelaide Lestrange.

At once, a pack of girls in hooded cloaks—their faces concealed in the shadows—emerged from the other doorways of their bedrooms. They began tossing rotten food at Hermione, interspersed occasionally with hexes and curses.

Someone dumped a bucket of filthy dishwater over her head, soiling her beautiful robe, leaving a coating of grease and bits of sodden food in her hair. Hermione cried out at the unpleasant sensation of cold, dirty, smelly water. This, then, was what these horrible girls had been doing in the kitchen—stealing food waste from the rubbish and biding their time until she returned. Her fellow young ladies with magical ability, her _housemates,_ the people she was stuck with for however long she attended Hogwarts.

“What did I ever do to any of you?” she exclaimed, fumbling for her wand.

“You forgot your place, Mudblood,” Lestrange sneered. “That’s what.”

“I have a right to be here,” Hermione protested.

“Let’s take her ring,” one of the girls suggested to Lestrange, who was apparently the leader.

The black-haired girl considered for a moment before shaking her head. “No. We’re not common thieves, and it really belongs to Riddle’s mother, after all. She’s a pureblood.”

“A blood-traitor, though.”

“Well, my father told me….” Lestrange trailed off, deciding against saying whatever she had started to say. “No matter. We have more in the sacks, don’t we, ladies? And from the butcher this time.”

Hermione let out a cry of dismay and scrambled on her knees into her room, barely avoiding a length of bloodied animal gut. She slammed the door just before Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode entered the hallway, so she did not see the looks of shock and disgust on their faces.

* * *

Although there was no one to see or hear her anymore, Hermione stifled her sobs nonetheless as she cleaned herself and her fine gown. Tears trickled silently down her cheeks at irregular intervals.

 _Couldn’t Tom have heard any of that?_ she thought miserably as she removed the stains from the cloth. _He didn’t try to intervene at all. Maybe he was so angry about Harry, and my supposed attentions to Harry, that he didn’t care._

That idea sickened her. Surely there was some other explanation. Tom surely would not stand by and _let_ these girls trip her, throw rubbish on her, curse her….

_Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should just go home. Maybe this school is no longer a place for people like me. This House certainly does not seem to be a place for me._

As soon as that idea entered her head, she banished it. _No._ That would mean letting these bullying, vicious girls win. They had attacked her because they didn’t like the idea of her in “their” space. If she ceded that space to them, they would have defeated her.

Her robe was finally clean. She was deeply relieved that it wasn’t ruined; without magic, it certainly would have been. She sighed and draped it over a chair. It was a pity that she had not bothered to learn a drying charm yet. That would be useful. Her gaze flitted to the books that she had purchased. Perhaps there was a suitable spell listed in one of them….

* * *

“She’s a _Mudblood,”_ Yvette Rosier, one of Adelaide Lestrange’s co-conspirators, sneered.

“I don’t care!” Daphne Greengrass snarled at Rosier as the Slytherin girls retreated triumphantly to the common room. “It was a disgusting thing to do! And especially for Adelaide—her father is on the Wizards’ Council!”

Tom and Harry glanced up at the group of girls. Their argument was not especially loud, but it was just loud enough for those nearest the door—as the two boys were—to hear it.

“Where is she anyway?” Daphne growled.

“In her chamber, I’m sure,” snapped Rosier.

“She _ought_ to apologize to Granger. It was uncouth, what you did. That was something that a gang of feral orphans might do to one of their betters.”

“That Mudblood is _not_ one of our betters.”

“No, but she _is_ a witch and a young lady. You wouldn’t think of doing that to any other noble girl at this school, for fear of what the girl’s family would do to yours in retaliation.” Daphne glanced uneasily at Tom.

—Who was on his feet, glaring hard at the girls. “What happened?” he said, his tone quiet but deadly.

 _“That_ lot”—Daphne shot a furious look at the other girls, minus Bulstrode—“ambushed Lady Granger in the corridor and threw rotten food on her. They hexed her, too, and drove her into her bedchamber covered in rubbish.”

Tom glared at the girls, then turned back to Daphne. “I see. Is she all right?”

“I don’t think they injured her. She locked herself in her room, I assume to clean herself.”

Harry leapt to his feet. “And you are otherwise all right with this?” he exclaimed.

Tom gave Harry a look of utter contempt. “Stay out of this. It does not concern you.”

“She is my friend! I’d say it concerns me—”

Tom drew his wand on Harry. “I said stay _out_ of it, peasant!”

“Peasant?” Harry said, his voice cold enough to match Tom’s. “That’s rich. _How_ long have you had your castle, again? And really, you want to make _me_ the enemy right now?”

“For the love of Morgana, _shut up.”_ Tom was on the verge of cursing Harry into silence when a shriek from the girls’ dormitories rent the air.

* * *

After a quick perusal of her spellbooks, Hermione had finally been ready to return to the Slytherin common room. There, she had vowed, she was going to humiliate the people who had humiliated _her._ She had some good hexes up her sleeve—not, she had thought darkly, the sleeve of the fine robe she had worn to dinner; it was one of her favorites and the one that Tom had specially complimented, so she was not going to give them the chance to ruin it permanently. But she would march into that room with her wand drawn and take her revenge in front of the entire House. Surely then she would gain some respect.

She had opened the door to the girls’ dormitory corridor—and immediately, a heavy splash of something cold and sludgy soaked her.

She glanced at her arm. _Mud._ Fury filled her mind. Someone had booby-trapped her doorway with _mud._ She looked up, observing the burst leather sack that dripped with slime from the banks of the lake, and taking note in a fraction of a second of the _other_ bag….

It exploded in a burst of dark red, coating her in cold, sticky, _foul, reeking_ blood.

Hermione screamed, overcome.

 _How did they even get this much blood?_ she thought in horror, sinking to her feet. _What did they take from the kitchen? What kind of blood_ is _this? It’s sticky and it smells so awful…._

Hermione felt the filth encrust her hair, obliterating her efforts to clean herself from the food—the rotten food, _how mild that sounds now,_ she thought—and she shuddered to think what she must look like. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and coursed down her face, accumulating _mud_ and _blood_ in their tracks before spotting the stone floor of the castle, so dirtied as to be unrecognizable as human tears….

Of course she could not show her face in the Slytherin common room _now,_ she thought miserably. She curled into a ball and started crying outright, not even trying to conceal her sobs, all thoughts of revenge banished and crushed.

* * *

The Slytherin girls dispersed as Hermione’s sobs echoed down the corridor into the common room. Daphne and Millicent looked appalled—and so did Harry.

“Well?” he snarled at Tom. “What about now? They have clearly done something else to her. Are you going to go back there and help her _now?”_

Tom sneered at the younger boy with disdain. “You idiot,” he said. “Boys can’t go into the girls’ area.”

Harry’s face fell, and he reddened in embarrassment. “But—what if girls attack another girl, like _these_ did?”

“It’s not something a boy can sort out.” He turned to Daphne to ask her to help Hermione, but the former was already on her way.

The girls who had been allied with Adelaide Lestrange attempted to scatter, but Tom gave them a thin, eminently sinister smirk. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. He turned to Yvette Rosier. “Well? What did she do? I have no doubt that you know.”

The girl muttered something under her breath.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Mud and pig’s blood,” the girl mumbled.

Tom hissed, snakelike. “Mud and blood. How _clever_ you must think you are,” he snarled. His fingers twitched on his wand. “I would so love to curse every one of you, you know.”

With that, to Harry Potter’s bewilderment, Tom stormed away, heading to the outer door of the Slytherin common room. Harry followed Tom, confusion and anger on Hermione’s behalf apparent in every feature of his face. Tom opened the door to let himself and Harry out, slamming it behind them immediately.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass filed down the corridor of the girls’ dormitories until she reached the entrance to Hermione Granger’s room. The girl was sobbing in the threshold of her room, covered in mud and blood, two burst bags dangling from the ceiling. Adelaide Lestrange must have charmed them to break when Hermione walked beneath them.

“Granger,” she said, hunching down, her wand remaining at the ready just in case.

Hermione glanced up. “What are you going to do to me now?” Her tone was defeated.

“Look, Granger— _Lady_ Granger—I had nothing to do with this. I was at dinner, and so was Millicent. Didn’t you see us?”

Hermione wiped her eyes, which was a useless effort, given her current condition. “I suppose,” she mumbled. “How do I know that you _really_ had nothing to do with it?”

Daphne smirked. “You know, I doubted that the Sorting Hat really wanted to place you in Slytherin. You don’t act like a Slytherin. You told it to, because Riddle is here, didn’t you?”

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed, but she managed a nod.

“I thought so. But… the fact that you didn’t believe me immediately means that you’re _becoming_ one of us.”

“Is that a compliment?” Hermione said, pulling strings of her befouled hair away from her face futilely. _“Did_ you have anything to do with it? If you did, then… just do whatever you came to do. I don’t care anymore.”

Daphne scowled. “I really didn’t have anything to do with it, and no more did Millicent. Believe me or not; it’s your choice. But I want you to know, I did not know they were going to do anything like this, and I think it’s a low, despicable thing to do to a noble-blooded witch.”

Hermione gazed at the other girl, afraid to believe. “Tom… _Lord_ Riddle,” she corrected herself. “Why didn’t he come back here? _You_ must have heard me scream; didn’t he?” This was the most painful consideration, and she was not sure she wanted to know the answer, but she could not stop herself from asking anyway.

“Boys can’t enter the girls’ living quarters,” Daphne said, visibly surprised that Hermione did not know this. “But he heard; believe me.”

Her heart thumped. “He’s angry?”

“He’s furious.”

Relief flooded her. Tom hadn’t come to her because he was barred from doing so. It wasn’t because he didn’t care or was angry at her for having a friend.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, trying to get to her feet. “I was….” She hesitated, embarrassed about what she had been thinking. _Of course I won’t give up!_ she thought. _I have as much right to be here as anyone else who is here!_

Daphne glowered suddenly, getting to her own feet as well. “This does not mean that I’m your _friend,”_ she said. “I just think it’s disgusting and disgraceful that they attacked you—and with pig’s blood, at that. The rotten food and the mud were bad enough, but this is inexcusable.”

Hermione was not inclined to complain. In fact, she found Daphne’s disclaimer far more reassuring of the girl’s honesty than a declaration of friendship and loyalty would have been. Daphne’s problem with her housemates’ behavior was that it was vile of them to attack a witch of noble blood. Hermione wondered if Daphne would feel the same way about a similar attack on a witch who was not noble… but even so, these qualifiers and conditions made Daphne’s appearance there far more credible than it would have been if she had proclaimed sympathy and friendship all of a sudden.

Hermione stood up. “I thank you nonetheless,” she said. “Now… I had better clean myself. Again,” she added. “And after that….” She trailed off pointedly as she entered the bedroom.

* * *

“Why won’t you retaliate on them?” Harry demanded in the empty hallway outside the Slytherin common room. “What kind of betrothed are you, not to defend your girl?”

Tom rolled his eyes. He _really_ did not have the time for this… but presumably Greengrass was helping Hermione. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall. “What is wrong with you?” he snapped. “Are you really as stupid as you’re acting?”

Harry stared back furiously. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Never mind,” Tom said in exasperation, his teeth clenched. “Evidently you are. Tell me, Potter, did the Sorting Hat even want you in Slytherin? I recall that it took a long time with you. Where else did it consider putting you? Gryffindor?”

“What difference does it make?” Harry said defensively.

Tom blew out his breath, rolling his eyes again. “All right, Potter, since you really don’t understand, here is why I cannot retaliate against them. They are _young ladies.”_

Harry looked blank. “So is she. You’re a young lord. And they didn’t act like it.”

“I agree, but they are. And a few of them are, unfortunately and undeservedly, higher-ranked than either Hermione or I. Adelaide Lestrange—who obviously set up the mud and pig’s blood, while the rest of her pack were in the common room—she is the daughter of a lord on the _Wizards’ Council._ She is also the first cousin of a _Malfoy._ Every one of the girls involved in that attack is the blood of Norman usurpers.”

“So is Hermione,” Harry said quietly, not quite meeting Tom’s eyes. “She told me about her family history.”

Tom paused. Why did he keep forgetting that? “Her grandfather won the family estate back from a Norman robber lord,” he said, “yes, by marrying the man’s daughter, but it wasn’t the woman’s fault. My point is, I can’t hurt these girls—openly, at least. It’s just not done for wizards to physically harm noble-born young witches—or, really, even common-born witches—unless they are actually defending _themselves_ in the moment. It’s not appropriate. But Her— _Lady_ Hermione can retaliate on them openly, since she’s a girl herself… and there are other things I can do to them, as long as they aren’t physical. Do you understand, Potter?”

Harry considered for a moment before nodding.

* * *

Hermione finally emerged from the bedroom and the girls’ dormitory corridor late that evening. She was twitchy and nervous, having made sure this time that there were no more magical traps set along her path. It made for a slow trek to the common area, but at last she gingerly peeked her head around the doorway that led to the girls’ area.

Tom was the only person still in the room that late. Her heart skipped a beat at that sight. She had hoped he would be there, though she was not sure… but here he was.

He rose from his chair, black robes falling down his form elegantly. “I heard about what happened to you,” he said. “It was despicable.”

Was that it? Had he no more to say to her than _that?_ Of course it was despicable, she thought. Her face fell slightly as the dark thoughts from earlier in the evening, about the possible significance of their relationship in his mind, flooded her mind once more. Perhaps he really didn’t care anything about the assault except for how it affected him and his family’s honor. He might see an attack on her as an attack on himself and his family, by extension. That might be all there was behind his present anger. Hermione might have grown up in a household with parents who cared for each other, but she was not quite so naïve as to believe that _every_ couple had that sort of relationship. With most couples of her social status, marriage was merely an alliance… so personal pride and honor would come before anything else….

“Yes,” she said, her words strangely brittle even to her own ears. “It was. But I have cleaned myself, and Daphne Greengrass helped me.”

Tom glanced at her curiously. He had expected her to be angry, but instead, it seemed that she was sad. Indeed, it was written in every line of her face. Why would she be so morose?

“Hermione, are you truly all right?”

She snapped her head up. Her eyes were wide with surprise. _Why?_ he wondered. He briefly locked eyes with hers to attempt to read the surface emotions in her mind… and… _oh._ She was surprised that he was showing personal concern for her. That… hurt. He had not realized it until now, but he did not want her to believe that he cared nothing about the humiliation and rejection that _she_ had felt in the attack, that his only interest in the disgusting affair was the connection to himself.

“Hermione, come here.” He spread his arms to her.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing around briefly to be sure that they were alone and no one would see a moment that should be private, before pressing herself against him. He promptly enclosed her with his arms. It was… nice… she thought. He was warm and strong, and she had never been held by a man other than her own father when she was a little girl. It was very different to be held by Tom. A strange, unfamiliar tingle sparked down her back as he embraced her.

For his part, Tom had never held a girl before, and he felt awkward about doing so initially. He didn’t know how to comfort or reassure her, and in fact, he had little familiarity with reassuring or comforting anyone. His mother had not needed it; she had been the parent, and now she was a ruling noblewoman. He had not had a sweetheart in his previous year at Hogwarts, or before. But Hermione was looking to him for comfort after a horrific, humiliating event… and he realized that he wanted to make her feel better.

He gave her a hug, eliciting a muffled cry of gratitude and pleasure from her. Involuntarily a smile formed on his face at that.

She hugged him back, then drew away. The abject misery and dark resignation had vanished from her face, replaced by relief and contentment. There was something else too, something he approved of just as much: resolve.

“I fully intend to take revenge on them however I can,” she said, her voice strong now.

Tom’s lips curled into a smile. “Good,” he said, his voice suddenly almost a whisper. “I’m going to as well.”

Hermione’s heart thumped at the change in his voice. “You are? But I thought….”

“I didn’t say physically. I am a Slytherin,” he explained. “There are things I can do. I happen to have known Adelaide Lestrange for a year, and I have seen her in a situation that I don’t think her father or her fiancé in Aquitaine would approve of.”

“Fiancé in Aquitaine…?”

“Yes, apparently no one in this ‘barbaric’ country is quite good enough for her,” Tom snarled. “But I have a memory, and I know how to extract and bottle them. I’ll take revenge on her that way—”

“Blackmail?” she asked in a small voice.

“Hermione, you Sorted yourself into Slytherin… and you’re a witch noble. You might as well learn survival skills.”

She looked down for a moment, then looked up and met his eyes with hers. “Very well. You can do that… but I still want to have public revenge on them with my wand.”

Tom smirked. “And it is quite appropriate that you should.”


	7. Best Served Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for your interest in and support of this story! I love you guys.
> 
> I realize I haven't broken my self-imposed schedule yet, but it's becoming difficult to get these chapters out by Friday night. I have a demanding full-time job, and the world is crazy and I think I live in one of the craziest parts of it. This story - and my other Tomione AU - are meant to be escapes from that, but I may need to set my update day on the weekend to unwind from the week better. If I do, don't worry; it'll still be updated weekly.

Alone in her bedchamber, Hermione pored over her magic books, looking for any and all aggressive spells that she thought she might be able to master quickly. She was unsure as to whether to humiliate Adelaide Lestrange and her pack in a public setting—like the Slytherin common room, or the corridor for the girls’ chambers—or to harm them in other, more subtle, but perhaps also more damaging ways.

Hermione was already outperforming them in all the subjects of magic that they were learning. It seemed that this bothered some of them but not all; the Slytherin noble girls were divided between those who seemed more interested in being wealthy aristocrats and those who cared about being powerful sorceresses in addition. It was hard to say which category Lestrange fit. Others, though… a Confundus Charm was short-lasting, but there were also Memory Charms. The girls who wanted to cultivate reputations of being supremely powerful pureblood witches would be mortified if they suddenly forgot much of their knowledge.

Hermione had also read that Memory Charms, when cast powerfully enough, could cause the mind to have difficulty retaining complicated knowledge permanently at all, even information learned after the spell was cast upon them. The victims of these most powerful and damaging Memory Charms had poor memories for years.

Her conscience pricked at her for the thought of what she was contemplating… but would they do it to her if it occurred to them? _Yes,_ she answered that thought. _Without question. And I don’t have to cast a spell in that damaging way, either. An ordinary Memory Charm is quite enough to cause the embarrassment I want them to experience._

What about the other girls, the ones who had—much as they themselves might hate to admit it—more “Muggle” ambitions revolving around nobility and wealth? Their dreams depended on their reputations as “young ladies,” and it seemed that Tom had some information that would harm Adelaide Lestrange in that regard… but since they were _witches,_ they too needed to be respected for their magical ability—or perceived ability, since it was all too clear to Hermione that pureblood nobles were automatically assumed to be better wizards and witches than anyone else—if they wanted to achieve their goals of marrying well.

Public humiliation for them, then? Hermione thought about subjecting them to the same sort of sneaky, degrading attack they had subjected her to, before dismissing the idea. _The House does respect magical power and aristocratic bloodline, but I doubt my housemates would react quite the same way to_ me _humiliating these girls publicly as they would to one of their own doing so. I am an outsider. They would probably close ranks against me even more than they have._ Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode, the two girls who had not participated in the attack, might even become allies in time—as long as Hermione did not “lower” herself publicly to the same kind of disgusting assault that had so appalled them. No, as much as she hated the double standard, Hermione had to admit that it did exist: These girls could, mostly, get away with low behavior directed at her, but she could not.

 _Nobles duel,_ she suddenly thought. _Muggles do, and I am sure that magical ones do as well, just with their wands. I could challenge them to a duel. That is a very traditional approach. An honorable duel… but I would have to win it, without doubt. And they have known of magic all their lives._

Hermione returned to her spellbooks. It was more important than ever to learn everything she could.

* * *

Tom drew his wand away from his forehead, pulling a silvery thread of memory in its wake. He held his wand over a flask he had conjured, then tapped his wand, releasing the memory into the glass bottle, where it transformed to faintly glowing smoke. He corked the flask.

This was rather advanced magic, he reflected, but he had made a point of teaching it to himself once Slughorn had declared him a “natural Legilimens.” _That_ much was true enough; he had the ability to perceive people’s emotions innately, and this assessment had sparked his interest in all forms of magic pertaining to the mind. Memory storage was so vastly superior to anything the Muggles had. The best _they_ could do was write down their thoughts. But memory storage was almost like a form of immortality… in fact, it probably was where the ancient Greek wizard Herpo had got his idea….

Tom pushed that thought away. He had not realized that his mother knew about _that_ topic at all, and it had embarrassed him very deeply when she had scolded him in Diagon Alley before Hermione. He had thought that he could simply make vague allusions about the notion of the hypothetical Elixir of Life being inferior to what wizards already could do, showing off for Hermione his knowledge both of existing advanced magic and unrealized magical theory, while his mother assumed he was making a show of empty arrogance.

His thoughts drifted. Herpo… the Greek sorcerer had also bred the first basilisk. That was interesting for a different reason. There was a legend that Slytherin, before his departure from Hogwarts, had left a secret chamber somewhere in its depths, and that it housed a “great serpent” that only he, the Parselmouth, could control.

Well, Tom was a Parselmouth and a descendant of Slytherin. If there _was_ a great serpent, he could control it too. He really wanted to get hold of those family history books in the castle library that his mother had not allowed him to read. As soon as she had seen him reading one, as soon as he had been _foolish_ enough to ask her about their descent from Morgana le Fay and Mordred the Dispossessed, the Wizard-King in Exile, she had put a hex on all genealogy books in the library so that he could not touch them. _“You aren’t yet old enough to read about some of this,”_ she had said. That was rubbish. He was plenty old enough. He wanted to know more, both about their royal (and purely English) origins and about this alleged Chamber of Slytherin.

He forced his drifting thoughts to return to the present and to the flask of memory before him. _This_ was what he could do right now. He could humiliate Adelaide Lestrange, who had had it coming for over a year now for what she had constantly said about _him_ last year— _“Half-blood churl!”—_ but to whom he could do nothing due to his social status and his maleness.

Until now.

He handled the flask with a smirk forming on his face, almost caressing it. Yes, he could use this incredibly valuable memory against her _now._ He was her social equal now; even if his mother was not a Countess like hers, they _were_ nobles now, and they owed Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange no fealty whatsoever. She had sworn directly to that decrepit Armand Malfoy. And more to the point, he was acting against Lestrange for what she had done to _Hermione._ It was potentially more than mere humiliation; there was the distinct possibility that her fiancé in Aquitaine would end the betrothal over this, diminishing any future prospects for her. It was not certain, but it was conceivable. Best case—for Tom—the foreigner would demand to have her brought to Europe to be married immediately, so her education would end and Tom would not have to deal with her anymore.

Yes, his betrothal to Hermione had given Tom a perfect excuse to do what he had wanted to do for months… but he still seethed with anger when he thought of the girls’ revolting assault on Hermione. Pig’s blood! It was both inherently disgusting and designed to degrade and debase her. The mere thought angered him on her behalf.

 _What do I really think of Hermione?_ he wondered. He wasn’t pleased about her spending so much time with _Potter,_ to be sure. Whenever she mentioned Potter’s name, or he saw her walking down the halls and talking to the boy, something inside him burned with heated fury—especially since she did not seem to understand how much he disapproved of it. But at the same time, perhaps there was a certain logic for all the Slytherin “outsiders”—as much as it outraged him to think of himself in such a way—to band together. Maybe that was what it was for her. And did he want her returning to her overheated “affections” for him, as she had in those first couple of days? He was no fool. He knew perfectly well that she could not have “felt” anything for him other than silly infatuation. She had hardly even known him.

 _Now,_ though…. They had known each other for a couple of months, at least, and perhaps he had grown a little possessive of her. He could concede that to himself. _It’s because everyone knows about our betrothal,_ he told himself. _Everyone knows, and it would look bad if too many people started to notice that she spends more time with a shopkeeper’s son than with me._

By the time he turned in to go to bed, Tom had convinced himself that he believed this explanation of it.

* * *

The following day, after they had finished their instruction but before dinner, Tom took Hermione aside to tell her about his plot. The Slytherin common room would hardly do, so they found a deserted alcove in the castle on the first floor.

“That’s a memory flask?” Hermione murmured as he withdrew it from the pouch he kept inside his outer layer of robes.

He was aware that this was not a question demanding an affirmative answer. “The memory could be rather damaging,” he remarked.

“What is it?” she asked. A bit of trepidation shadowed her face. “If—if you think it’s fit to discuss—”

Tom smirked. “It’s not what I expect you think it is. She was _thirteen_ when this happened. That’s just old enough, yes, but….” He trailed off awkwardly at the thought entering his mind; _he_ was thirteen too, and Hermione was that age in a couple of weeks. “This memory is of her in the tavern in Hogsmeade, thoroughly drunk, largely in the company of wizards. There was only one other witch at the bar with her, and I happened to see her hobbling back to the castle surrounded by the wizards.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and her face flushed. “Do you think they—I mean—” She broke off, turning even redder at the thought that she would not voice in words.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t have dreamed of taking advantage of a noble witch with such a powerful father, and that nothing happened,” Tom said, “but that’s not the point. It looked awful, both for a ‘young lady’ to be publicly intoxicated after emerging from a lowbrow inn, and for her to stumble home in that state surrounded by wizards of similar status who weren’t close relatives.”

Hermione nodded. “It does seem very careless of her. Did she see you at the time?”

“I think she did, and I also think she was just lucid enough to remember it.”

“So this—you are going to send it to her father?”

“No,” he said, and his facial expression was positively malicious. “Her father would destroy it and probably try to put a Memory Charm on anyone who witnessed it. I’m going to send it to her betrothed in Aquitaine. He will either break it off with her—which will be a disgrace—or he’ll demand that her family send her to him to be married off immediately. Either we will be rid of her, then, or her reputation will be ruined.” He raised his eyebrows at Hermione. “Have you thought about what you intend to do?”

She smiled. “It’s a fascinating coincidence that you should mention Memory Charms.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with delight.

* * *

For the next couple of days, Hermione bided her time carefully. She decided that she should gain some practice casting Memory Charms… but the only way she could see to do that was to practice on the offending girls themselves.

Probably some of them were merely tagalongs, she mused. They had participated, of course, but they had not been the leaders or necessarily even the ones most enthusiastic about it. Lady Parkinson was very much that sort, a useless sycophant with barely an original thought in her own head, even a vicious thought. On the other hand, she was definitely not one of the ones who were interested in making a name for themselves as great witches. _Of course,_ Hermione thought, _public embarrassment at appearing incompetent would work on anyone. Perhaps I should attack all of them with Memory Charms and duel the leaders in public in addition._ Yes, that made sense. Hermione modified her plans and considered her best opportunity to attack. Parkinson would be the first victim, then.

Hermione could not yet conceal herself from sight. That was a very advanced spell, and books warned that one did not always even have enough innate magical power to do it until approximately age seventeen. But she could hide in the shadows of the Slytherin girls’ corridor late at night, a long grey cloak further sheltering her from the tired eyes of her housemates.

The Masters of Hogwarts taught nonverbal casting whenever a spell could be done that way. It was seen as a sign of magical weakness to have to speak words. Hermione was grateful for it, because she could cast the _Obliviate_ upon the unsuspecting girl without potentially betraying her presence audibly either.

Parkinson blinked and stopped in the threshold of her room for a second. Hermione held her breath, and then the girl continued into her chamber, as if nothing had happened.

* * *

The next day in Potions, Hermione observed out of the corner of one eye as Parkinson fumbled and fumed over her cauldron, apparently having forgotten key attributes of several of her ingredients and, as a result, producing a mess.

Slughorn paused over the acrid fumes. “Lady Parkinson… what has happened? You brewed the Calming Draught last week. This is not so different.”

“I am sorry,” she said, flushed and angry. “I seem to have forgotten much of it.” She drew her wand to vanish the useless muck in her cauldron.

“Well, that happens to all of us,” he said genially. “But do be sure to practice extra so that you remember it better.”

Millicent Bulstrode, who was near Parkinson, listened to the exchange and chuckled nastily. Her own potion was not perfect, nor close to it, but quite passable. Daphne Greengrass, her partner, smirked. They had no idea of the intrigue, but Slytherin House and the wizarding nobility were both intensely competitive and cutthroat, so any failing by a rival—and _everyone_ who wasn’t very closely related by marriage or blood (and even some of those) was a rival, even if they made common cause politically—was fodder for personal enjoyment.

Hermione lowered her head to hide the smirk she also bore so that Harry would not see. It wasn’t that she distrusted his secrecy, but this might seem a bit sneaky and dubious to him. In some ways, she thought darkly, the common folk had more personal honor than the nobles, who might swear oaths of fealty and alliance but sometimes had no particular qualms about poisoning and other underhanded methods of taking out enemies. Her own parents did not—that she knew of—but they had spoken of peers who they believed did. Hermione would not be surprised to find that it was far more common among the magical aristocracy, who had powerful methods. This, after all, was quite mild. Tom would understand— _approve_ —and he was the person she should confide her secrets to.

Satisfied with how well this had gone, Hermione went for three more of the girls that evening, leaving only Adelaide Lestrange with an undamaged memory. After considering her plans again, Hermione had refined them further. As the clear leader, Adelaide would suffer in the public duel. She would also apparently be the victim of Tom’s… blackmail, if he merely threatened her with the memory, or material damage if he exposed it to the French fiancé. So far, no one suspected anything over the fact that several Slytherin girls were suddenly having difficulty in their magic. If Lestrange, who would be publicly set down over the incident, started acting forgetful too, it might draw unwanted attention to the other girls and expose what Hermione had done.

The following morning, Tom took her aside in the common room. “Meet me in the Owlery just after dinner tonight,” he whispered. “I’m going to send _it.”_

Hermione tried not to be distracted by the feeling of him whispering in her ear. She raised her eyebrows. “You won’t… speak of it first? How will she know to attribute it rightly?”

He understood what she was asking, through her vague and seemingly benign questions. He shook his head in the negative. “She’ll know it was me, but this way she can’t prove it.” He gazed at her pointedly. “We’ll talk more then, and you can tell me more. I have heard the most interesting things.”

His tone was admiring. Hermione flushed faintly at the praise, and it thrilled her that they were starting to bond over a common cause, even if that cause was a strategy for revenge.

* * *

The Owlery sported an expansive view of the rolling Scottish countryside that was especially magnificent in the fading light after sunset. Hermione could see a couple of stars already. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she noticed the tall, dark-haired young wizard in one corner, tentatively stroking the feathers of a large owl.

She approached him. He looked up, noticing her. “Hermione,” he said in acknowledgment. He drew the memory flask out of the pouch on his belt and held it before her, his eyes glittering and his mouth breaking into that calculating smirk of his. “Here it is. As I mentioned earlier, I’m sending it to this lord because I don’t think blackmail would be a good idea. She would, obviously, know exactly who had threatened her, and she might tell her usurping Norman father”—Tom winced for a brief moment as he realized, once again, that he had forgotten Hermione’s part-Norman descent—“about my threat. He could harm my mother… or either of us. Or possibly even your parents.”

Hermione gaped. In all of this scheming, she had not thought for one second about the risk to her non-magical parents. “But… there is a defense clause in our families’ contract, isn’t there?” she exclaimed.

He considered that. “Yes, there is… and I am sure that, if she hasn’t yet done so, my mother will send some people to your parents’ castle to put up magical protections to prevent that very kind of attack. Perhaps Lord Severus can do it. They know that if they do anything to your parents, my mother will retaliate, and since they’re Muggles, my mother might even bring it to the Muggle aristocracy’s attention. I very much doubt that the Wizards’ Council wants our people involved in the Muggle conflict,” he added, smiling darkly. “But they—your parents, I mean—won’t be in extra danger right now anyway, because if I send this directly to the Frenchman, no attribution to myself, then Lestrange will certainly _believe_ I did it in retaliation but will not be able to prove it.”

Hermione frowned, taking all this in. It made sense.

“Now,” he continued, his smirk broadening, “what about you? I have heard the most interesting complaints from your attackers and their male associates. It seems that they have been having a great deal of trouble with their studies lately.” His eyes were gleaming with approval.

“I used Memory Charms on them,” she admitted. “All of them except Lestrange. _Her,_ I intend to duel publicly.”

Tom nodded in approval. “A good front to conceal the Memory Charms. And—Hermione, your magical ability is extraordinary. I hope you realize that.”

It was not false flattery. He meant it, and he was legitimately impressed. Hermione smiled—but then she remembered that Tom had always been impressed with her magical skill.

She decided to plunge forward and ask him about the issues that had dogged her thoughts for the past week. “Tom, I thank you—sincerely—but may we talk about some things, now that we are alone?”

Tom glanced at the owl. He believed he understood what sorts of “things” she had in mind, and he realized it would be a complicated discussion if so. He took a deep breath, slid the flask into the leather pouch that was bound to the owl’s legs, and summoned a scurrying rat from the castle floor. The owl took the squeaking rodent in its sharp talons and cast off in a majestic, threatening black shadow.

He turned to her. “All right. What do you want to discuss?” He grimaced inwardly about how cold that had come out.

Hermione did not flinch or draw away. She eyed him, not disapprovingly, but also without any sign of the girlish adoration that she had shown him at the beginning of their relationship. “I want to discuss us,” she said simply. “Specifically, I wish you would tell me why you have been so cold toward me here at Hogwarts.”

“I haven’t been cold toward you,” he said defensively. “I have treated you as I should.”

“You have,” she insisted. “You escort me, yes—you do exactly as you should and always act like the nobleman that you are—but you show no warmth and little friendliness to me. We don’t even talk about magic here! At least we had that at your mother’s castle. I just don’t understand. And Harry….”

Tom’s face had soured at the mention of that name. Hermione noticed. “Are you _jealous_ of him, Tom?” she charged.

“Of course I’m not. He’s a shopkeeper’s son. There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“You’re jealous of the time I spend talking to him,” she said. “I remember what you said to me when we had that first argument. You were worried that I would meet another boy here. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Tom—you have no reason to be! I know that you were raised differently than I was. I understand that. But I wouldn’t betray you!”

Tom considered what to say. Her charges of jealousy of Potter over her attentions were completely accurate, and he was not sure he even wanted to deny that to her face. He would then have to concoct another explanation for his attitude to Potter, and it would only further her fears that he did not care anything for her. “My mother ran away from her family to marry for love,” he finally said. “Or… desire, at least. I don’t know. But she gave up wealth and power for fourteen years to do it, Hermione.”

“Had they picked out someone else for her?”

Tom hesitated. He had tried to get that information out of his mother, and she had certainly _implied_ that they had not, but she had not stated it outright. “I don’t know,” he said. “But whether they had or not, she lost everything because she met someone she liked better than the family riches. And I’ve heard of nobles who betray their spouses all the time,” he added sourly. “Men and women.” _And it is atrocious to think of being cast off in favor of someone else._

Hermione looked appalled. “I have heard of such things, too, of course, but I am not _that_ kind of woman.”

“I wasn’t saying that you were,” he said at once. “I meant _before_ your marriage.”

“I don’t see it as that different,” she said stubbornly. “Honor is honor. I wear your ring. And this is all beside the point, because I like _you,_ Tom! But you made it very clear to me that you didn’t want me to show you that, so I stopped after the first couple of days at your mother’s castle. So I don’t understand why you would choose to be jealous of Harry when you don’t show warmth to me yourself and don’t seem to want me to show it to you. Does it embarrass you?”

He wanted to glare at her, but only for a fraction of a second. Her questions were perfectly logical, and he could see that when he looked at it objectively. “It annoyed me when you showed ‘warmth’ to me at first because we had just met, and I was angry with my mother over what she had done, and I knew that you could not really _care_ for me that early since you barely knew me.”

She considered this, though it made her blush in shame that he was implying that she had acted silly at that early stage. “Are you still angry with your mother? You don’t act it. Even before we came to Hogwarts, you have acted as though you had accepted this.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said defensively. “I had accepted it, you might say… but I was still angry with her. Frankly, Hermione….” He hesitated for a moment. What he was about to say would hurt her feelings. But it was his honest opinion, which was what she wanted, right? He continued, “I know why nobles play matchmaker with their children. They want to make alliances for mutual protection. But your parents can do precious little to defend my mother’s keep… and they bring little, if any, political benefit in the _wizarding_ part of the aristocracy… so it seemed to me that our parents were _using_ me in order to get you admitted to Hogwarts, and that was it.”

Hermione was staring at him, eyes wide. He plunged ruthlessly ahead. “I couldn’t see what _we_ got out of it, or specifically, what _I_ did, for a while at first. Don’t cry, Hermione”—for those large eyes were welling with unshed tears. “I said ‘at first.’ That changed after I got to know you better. You are so superior to others at this school….”

She blinked away the tears and took a deep breath. “And that is why you accepted it?”

“Mostly,” he said. There was a hint of truculence in his voice. “And… I got used to my new status. It became a part of that, in a way.”

She gave him a nod. “That’s fitting,” she said, a bit of that know-it-all officiousness returning to her voice. “It _is_ a part of it, almost always.”

“But”—he turned aggressive again—“it’s _marriage,_ Hermione. It’s not that our parents are merely encouraging us to be friends. They wrote a _contract_ for _marriage._ Do you actually comprehend what that _means?”_

Hermione glared stonily at him. _“I_ grew up with two parents, Tom Riddle. Your father died before you knew him, and your mother did not remarry. Maybe the right question is, do _you_ comprehend what that means?”

Tom was startled and rather affronted for a moment, but rapidly those feelings changed to pride in her. He liked it when she was strong and met him face-to-face. “I have lived in the world too, Hermione,” he said. “But… I take your point. You comprehend what it means. You were just raised as a noble, so this has been normal to you for your whole life.”

She nodded. “I wish you would believe me when I say that I like you, and that I value my word and honor and I would not cheat on our agreement… and that my feelings for Harry Potter are purely amiable in any case. But even if you can’t do that yet, I just want to be friends for now, Tom. Just friends. If you’re worried about Harry, doesn’t it make sense to be friends with me anyway?”

Tom considered. He remained silent for a while, and Hermione spoke once more. “My parents’ marriage was arranged by their parents. They—my grandparents—wanted a really strong alliance, so there were actually _two_ marriages, my aunt and uncle as well as my parents… but my parents are still very kind and affectionate to each other. I know that they’re friends. That was also something that I grew up observing.” She left off at that, but Tom knew what was unspoken: _“And I want that too.”_

He nodded and extended a hand to her. The fact that she had mentioned her parents as “friends” rather than an infatuated pair in a heated romance comforted him… and her logic about Potter was sound. It impressed him; he had truly not thought of it that way, that he was potentially harming his own interests by letting Potter be the one to offer her the most attention. “I can do that,” he said, feeling the warmth of her hand as she slipped it into his.

She smiled as the sky turned to midnight blue and more stars came out.

* * *

The occupants of the Slytherin common room raised their collective eyebrows as Tom entered the room holding hands with a girl. Any hint of intrigue was like gold to a niffler to them. But as soon as they saw that the girl was Hermione, and therefore that there was no potential scandal, interest faded—except in one quarter. Adelaide Lestrange, surrounded by her pack of extremely unhappy-looking girls, glared at the pair silently.

Harry Potter was seated by himself in a corner. Tom paused as he noticed the younger boy. Then he turned to Hermione, gave her a nod, and released her hand, heading toward Potter’s corner.

Hermione turned to Lestrange. Now was as good a time as any. She mustered her courage.

“I’m calling you out, ‘Lady’ Adelaide,” she said, her words quiet—though loud enough for others to hear—but steely.

Lestrange met her eyes. “You dare to call _me_ out, Mudblood?”

“You led an unprovoked attack on me. You meant to shame me, by your choice of ‘materials’ to use against me, but you disgraced _yourself_ by your actions. It was underhanded, disgusting, and more befitting of a lowborn bandit than a lady.” Her words grew stronger still. “As is my right by our laws, I challenge you to a magical duel.”

They had the attention of everyone in the Slytherin common room at this point. Lestrange glanced around quickly, realized this, and realized that there was nothing to be done but accept the challenge. She sneered at Hermione. “Accepted. Do you feel up to it right now, Mudblood? Let’s get this over with, so you can go back to your bedchamber and cry some more. Or maybe go back to your Muggle parents where you belong.”

Hermione glared back. “I won’t be the one going anywhere.” She glanced at the two boys in the corner, who were watching closely, and drew her wand. “I have _no_ objection to dueling right now.”

One of Lestrange’s… friends, or whatever they were, Hermione supposed… tugged at her sleeve in what she imagined was an unobtrusive manner. “Adelaide,” the girl whispered, “are you sure you want to do this right now, in front of everyone?”

“Be quiet, Rosier,” the girl commanded. She stood and drew her wand on Hermione. “I suppose we must bow, even though you do not deserve it.”

 _She won’t attack me during our bow with the entirety of Slytherin, including Tom, watching her,_ Hermione thought as she bowed to the girl, who did the same.

As soon as their heads bobbed back up, they were ready. _“Reducto!”_ Lestrange bawled.

Hermione blocked it nonverbally, which she noticed out the corner of her eye earned her immediate respect from the Slytherins, just as Lestrange’s verbal screeching of a spell lost her some of their respect—at least momentarily.

Unfortunately, the spell Hermione meant to use was one she could not yet cast silently. _“Confringo!”_ she exclaimed. A heated pressure wave exploded from her wand, catching Lestrange. Although it was nowhere as strong as it would have been if cast by a trained adult witch or wizard, it was still enough to impress the young people in the room. Shock filled the older girl’s eyes as she stumbled, small flames catching at her robes from the curse.

“You filthy Mudblood!” she raged, but the time spent shouting the insult cost her dearly. Hermione sent a jinx at her almost completely nonverbally, only whispering it under her breath. The girl tripped over her own legs.

Hermione smirked. _Expelliarmus,_ she thought, expecting the duel to end—

—Lestrange blocked it, only just, but with her quick defense, the duel was not yet over. She rose to her feet, still wobbly, and sent a silent Fire-eye Jinx at Hermione. Shocked, she blocked it, but only barely. Furious, both with herself for letting her guard down, and with this girl for using something like that—that would have been horribly distracting if it had hit, and it might have lost her the duel—Hermione mustered her magical energy and hurled a nonverbal Stupefy at the girl. It struck.

Grimly satisfied and proud, Hermione cast the Expelliarmus once more. Lestrange’s wand sailed into her hand. She pointed it over the prone girl, contempt and triumph radiating from her face. Lestrange gazed back furiously, but she knew what everyone else in the room knew. The _Mudblood_ had beaten her in a duel of honor.

The smirk on Tom’s face was broader than she had ever before seen it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dueling, blackmail/information exposure, and Memory Charms? Edgy, but everything that Hermione does here (or authorizes Tom to do) is something that she does in canon. No, she didn’t do it this young, but this is a darker, more ruthless era, and this Hermione has to toughen up really fast.
> 
> The “Fire-eye Jinx” is the Conjunctivitis spell that Krum used on his dragon. I don’t think they would call it that medical-sounding name in the 1100s.


	8. Toujours Pur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! There is not as much Hogwarts in this chapter, I’m afraid, but on the bright side, we’re stepping back to look at the broader picture. Every action has a reaction.

_Castle l’Etrange._

Countess Bellatrix Lestrange rose from the throne-like chair in which she sat and waved the letter she had just received before her vassal.

“Do you _understand_ me?” she roared. “My daughter was just attacked at Hogwarts by a Mudblood! They should not even be allowed!”

Amycus Carrow scowled. “I heard of it, my lady.”

“That filthy girl _singed Adelaide’s robes!”_ Bellatrix exclaimed.

“But she knows how to undo that, doesn’t she?”

Bellatrix glared. “That is not the point! My daughter should not have to repair her robes like a house-elf or a grubby village witch, and certainly not because of a dirty Mudblood who should not even be at Hogwarts!”

Rodolphus, the lord of the castle, strode into the great hall where his wife was. He eyed her. “I approved the Mudblood’s admission,” he said grudgingly, “because of a marriage alliance play that _your_ former liege lady, Carrow, made for her son. You tell me now that the Mudblood has repaid the Council’s charity by attacking our daughter?” He strode forward. “Give me that letter,” he demanded.

Bellatrix glared at him for a fraction of a second but handed over the note. Rodolphus read it, scowled, and rolled it up, not giving it back to her. “According to her, it was a duel that observed the traditional rules. She was a fool to take up the challenge. Accepting a Mudblood’s challenge is tantamount to declaring them our equals. I have no sympathy.” Still holding the letter, he strode out of the great hall.

Bellatrix looked as if she wanted to protest, but she would not berate her husband in front of Carrow.

A few days later, a second owl arrived.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Although a Slytherin, Adelaide Lestrange had essentially no concept of secrecy when it came to her emotions, even when it would have been in her interest to keep her feelings about something to herself. The screech of dismay and outrage reverberated down the Slytherin table at breakfast shortly after her owl arrived and unceremoniously dropped a letter before her, as if it knew the contents.

Tom’s face was curious but otherwise impassive. Next to him, Hermione attempted to mimic him. She was pretty sure she knew what tidings that owl bore, at least in essence. The details, of course, would come out later. On her other side, Harry craned his neck to get a better view as Adelaide rose from her seat in distress and her friends sat back, not offering a word of support.

Later that day, the truth was out: Lord Berengar, the wealthy pureblood nobleman in Aquitaine who was more than twice Adelaide’s age but to whom she had still been engaged, had ended the betrothal unceremoniously after receiving certain information about her.

Hermione had to feign ignorance of the intrigue, and Harry _was_ ignorant of it. Daphne and Millicent were more than happy to enlighten their housemates during Potions. “She drinks all the time,” Millicent said baldly, though her voice was audible only to the three people nearest her. “I’ve already heard about her stash of wine in her bedchamber.”

Hermione stared at Millicent. _That_ had not been in the description Tom had given her of his memory. “She has wine hidden in her room?” she repeated.

Daphne nodded. “Her friends—the ones who attacked you—visit her to have parties. They’ve already had two late-night revels, supposedly, unless Parkinson was making empty boasts… but yes, I’m sure that’s how she knew her way around the kitchen. She’s either been stealing it or flattering the elves into giving it to her for a year already.”

“Drunkenness runs in her mother’s family. Everyone knows about her mother the Countess, and nobody wants to visit Castle l’Etrange because of her _ladyship_ having too much and going into a violent rage,” Millicent stated.

Daphne nodded gleefully as she powdered her scarab beetle. “And the rumor is that there was an incident last year where Adelaide stumbled out of the tavern at Hogsmeade—the _low_ one, the Hog’s Head—barely able to walk, reeking of cheap ale, surrounded by older wizards, mostly ones who finished last year. And that _this_ is what Lord Berengar found out about.”

Harry looked startled. “If they did anything to her, wouldn’t it already have been a scandal?” he asked.

“Well, yes, so they probably didn’t,” Daphne acknowledged. “But that’s not the point. Ladies can’t risk their reputations… and who can blame Lord Berengar for not wanting to marry someone who is in her cups half the time?” She smirked and turned to her cauldron.

Hermione, who had known of this part and had been thinking about Tom’s owl for several days, was contemplating other things. “So what is going to happen?” she asked. “It seems that it might be difficult for her to get another betrothal if people know about this.”

“Oh, I expect her parents will find something,” Daphne said with a shrug. “Her father _is_ on the Wizards’ Council. But her prospects are definitely dimmer now.” She smirked again and lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’ll have to settle for a second son, I’d bet. Poor Lady Adelaide.” Insincerity dripped from her words. “But between us, I thought that Lord Berengar was too old for her. It’s disgusting that some man who is almost thirty looks at a thirteen-year-old and sees her as a wife. I know that a lot of people don’t agree, but that’s just what I think. Maybe the bright side for her is that her father will find a wizard close to her age.”

Hermione was aware that that kind of thing happened regularly, but she had not personally known of any girl who had been married off to an adult man. The thought revolted her too… even for an enemy who hated her and had set her up to be covered in blood. She gave silent thanks that her parents had promised her a few years ago that they would not send her to someone who disgusted her.

Tom… Hermione smiled at the thought of him. Since they had had their discussion in the Owlery, he had been more considerate of her—and, notably, less contemptuous of Harry. He had taken part in their small study sessions in the common room, sharing his knowledge. Admittedly, he still had a rather superior air when he talked about magic, especially magic that he knew and they did not (or that he thought they did not), and _especially_ when he spoke directly to Harry. But Tom had been like that about his knowledge from the first day she had known him, and if Hermione was entirely honest with herself, she had that quality too.

His public behavior was unchanged; he still had perfect, unimpeachable manners, and did not act overly familiar with her in front of other people. He escorted her to meals, joined her whenever she wanted to practice magic in the common room and Harry Potter was present, and kissed her hand as he saw her off at the door to the girls’ corridor at night. Nevertheless, Tom really was keeping to his word about attempting to be friendlier with her when they were alone. They were going to have the opportunity to visit the nearby village, Hogsmeade, this weekend, and he was going to take her. She was looking forward to it.

Her thoughts returned to the classroom as her potion turned a brilliant, sparkling shade of red, exactly as it should. The potion in Millicent and Daphne’s cauldron was nothing to be ashamed of, but it did not sparkle. The girls eyed their neighbors enviously. For that matter, Hermione envied Harry his brilliant mother, who had taught him this subject, and a flash of anger passed through her mind at the thought that such a person had not been allowed to attend Hogwarts. It wasn’t _right._ She was glad of her match to Tom—but that was because of her station in life and the fact that she liked him. Her admission to Hogwarts should not have been contingent on it.

Well, perhaps that would change. Armand Malfoy would not live forever—he looked half-dead already, she remembered scornfully—and perhaps with this disgrace to his family, Rodolphus Lestrange’s influence would be diminished. And, too, perhaps the excellent example _she_ could set in school would prompt the Wizards’ Council to evolve eventually.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

The family sitting room was crowded with well-dressed, esteemed personages, almost all male. Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange sat enthroned in the grandest seats. Three generations of Malfoy men sat coldly in chairs, accompanied by Narcissa, Lucius’s wife. Arcturus Black, his son Orion, his daughter-in-law Walburga, and _her_ brother Cygnus—who so happened to be the father of the host’s lady—occupied seats across from the Malfoys. Orion and Walburga’s heir, Regulus, sat next to them. Across the room, magical blue-black flames flickered in the great hearth, not providing a scintilla of real or perceived warmth to the room. It was fitting, at least.

Rodolphus spoke. “I thank you, my lords and kinsfolk, for coming here tonight in our time of trouble, to give counsel as friends.”

Armand Malfoy did not seem especially inclined to agree with Lestrange’s view on that matter. He eyed the younger wizard without respect. “I understand that your daughter’s disgrace was caused by her own reckless and unladylike conduct, although I would agree that something must be done to keep the reputation of your house from further decline.”

Lestrange’s eyes widened in anger, but only for a moment. One did not cross Armand Malfoy, not even—or perhaps _especially_ —one on the Wizards’ Council.

“You also told me that she was defeated in a duel by the Mudblood. Do you think that the Mudblood sent the information to Lord Berengar?” Armand asked baldly.

“No, my lord,” Bellatrix spoke up. “She wrote to us that the event occurred last year. That said, I _do_ suspect that the Mudblood’s betrothed, the half-blood son of the blood-traitor Gaunt lady, was the one who sent the information.” She scowled. “Lord Berengar said it was unassailable evidence—an actual bottled memory. I am sure it came from Riddle.”

“Yes,” Lestrange agreed. “And frankly, something needs to be done. They are getting above themselves.”

The eldest Malfoy leaned in, leering, his papery skin stretched thin. “I told all of you that we should not admit the Mudblood. Instead of accepting her place after your daughter and her little friends taught her that lesson, she and Riddle chose to retaliate, and now it has cost your daughter a grand title. The Berengars are the highest-ranked wizarding family in their country.”

“I am aware of what we have lost, my lord,” Bellatrix said through clenched teeth. “But it is because of this that we must act.”

“I spoke in favor of killing the Mudblood and the half-blood,” Armand opined.

Arcturus Black spoke up. “And I opposed that then and still do, my lord, for the same reasons. And now we have to consider the fact that these people are good at taking meaningful, damaging revenge. The Mudblood is not isolated. They may truly be fond of each other; they certainly confide and conspire, since this duel and the memory scheme happened at the same time. Lady Riddle may have even been involved in giving them ideas, for all we know. In addition… she has raised that half-blood, Severus Snape, to a title.”

Bellatrix gave a snarl of disgust.

“I also think that we must consider other methods of neutralizing them,” Abraxas Malfoy said. “The lady said that she was still able to conceive children. If there are unattached _pureblood_ nobles… or even half-blood bastards… then we could try to pressure her into a marriage that would result in her son being cut off if she had other children.”

“Castle Gaunt—or whatever she calls it now—is impermeable,” Arcturus objected. “And that great wall surrounds the village and fields. They built it to be a self-sustaining fortress, and it is. It’s protected by strong magic, too. That castle has been there in some form for over six hundred years. We have nothing to threaten her with _other_ than the lives of her son and the girl.”

“That is true,” Abraxas agreed glumly.

“I would not be against that,” Bellatrix said spitefully. “Especially the Mudblood. This is all her fault. My daughter studied alongside the half-blood for a year with nothing like this happening. It’s distressing that such a one would be in Slytherin House, but I suppose he _is_ descended from the Founder. The Mudblood is the cause of all this. We should just kill her. And if you say that her parents would go to one of the Muggle pretenders for justice, my answer would be: Why not kill them too?”

“Because Lady Riddle is a blood-traitor and has a contract of alliance with them,” Arcturus said, his patience fraying. “We cannot act against them yet! In time, we’ll have a plan, preferably involving Lady Riddle, but we should not act rashly and violently. Instead, we should come together now to reaffirm the standing of our friend and kinsman’s family.” He turned to Lestrange with a nod.

Abraxas glanced at his son, Lucius. “I told you my idea. Have you decided?”

Lucius nodded. “Yes. We’ll do that.” Pleased to finally have the attention of the noble and venerable wizards in the room, Lucius smiled and explained to his peers what they proposed.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

 

_My lady mother,_

_We are adapting to the resumption (or beginning) of our studies at Hogwarts well. Lady Hermione has made a friend, and possibly has two more eventual friendships developing. As you would expect from the abilities that she demonstrated while she was with us, she is excelling at magic. I must take a little credit to myself for that, because you will be pleased to know that I study with her and practice spells when she wishes to._

_But I regret to tell you that she will need both friends and powerful magic. Recently, a group of Slytherin girls, led by Adelaide Lestrange, launched a shameful attack on her in the corridor of the girls’ bedchambers. I will not dwell too long on the particulars, but will say that they ambushed her with rotten food and trash from the kitchen, and after driving her into her room, Lestrange set up a magical trap in the threshold of her door that covered her in mud and blood when she walked out. It was a disgusting, low thing to do, and neither of us will ever forget it._

_In a few days, though, she had her revenge, challenging Lestrange to a public duel in the common room—and easily defeating her. I was proud to watch her. She will be a great witch someday and I am glad she has the opportunity to study at Hogwarts…._

 

Merope read her latest owl post from Tom, a frown crossing her face. Tom had told her about the attacks on Hermione and the following duel, in which Hermione publicly challenged the Lestrange girl and defeated her, but his wording was very guarded indeed. Something else had happened that he was not telling her—or if not, then she was extremely disappointed in him. It was understandable that Tom would not want to openly attack a group of pureblood young ladies, especially one whose father was on the Wizards’ Council, but if he really had not done anything to defend Hermione—if he had stood back completely—then it was a very unpromising development for their betrothal, let alone for his own honor.

Merope had thought that the young people would develop a friendship over their shared intellectual interests in magic, as well as banding together against the onslaught that would surely be facing both of them, especially since Hermione had gotten herself sorted into Slytherin House. But Tom was very good at concealing his emotions when those emotions were anything other than raw anger, and Merope was not _certain_ that he genuinely liked Hermione as she believed he ought. Hermione herself, too, fancied him, but in the absence of encouragement or any attempt to form a friendship, that would not last. Merope hoped she was not watching a disaster unfold. _They just need more time,_ she thought. _They are very young yet. And he may have more feelings for her than he shows me._ If that was the case, then Merope hoped very much that Tom would show _Hermione,_ at least.

She wondered, too, if she had been in the right to make her bargain with Tom. If he really was as cool to Hermione as her more pessimistic reading of the letter implied, then he might have concluded that his best option was to go along with the betrothal for their years at Hogwarts, to make all the proper courtesies to her, but then after they were finished with their studies, to declare that he did not want to marry her. Although she had not taken a formal oath to him, it still seemed very much to her that she had sworn falsely to _someone,_ whether the Grangers or her son. The thought troubled her. If, a few years from now, he did make that assertion, then what would she do?

 _I made the bargain with him in order to placate him, to cool his anger, and to remove the element of compulsion that might get in the way of him becoming friends with her,_ she realized. _I did swear falsely to him. I did not make the bargain intending to actually keep my word to him._

Another possibility intruded, which was in its own way even more unpleasant to contemplate. Tom had quickly adapted to the lifestyle of a young lord. It was a very common more that it was all right for noblemen to have mistresses or worse, and that it hardly mattered whether they cared for their wives. As a woman, Merope found that particular social custom of her class disgusting, and sweet Hermione deserved better. Witches, who had powers of their own, deserved better. No—she would not think that of her son without evidence. Tom had not even been interested in girls.

She read the letter from him again, reconsidering it. Yes, it was guarded language, but there was also real anger between the lines. Sometimes Tom exploded in rage, but on other occasions he would simmer quietly. And he very well might have done something that he did not want to commit to print. _That_ was certainly like him.

“My lady!”

Merope looked up from her letter. Severus Snape was standing in the great hall, looking agitated and concerned.

She rolled up the letter and gave him a welcoming smile. “Severus. What is the matter?”

He sighed. “May I suggest that we sit? This is a… difficult subject.”

Merope raised her eyebrows. “Certainly,” she replied, sitting down at the high seat.

Severus sat nearby. He ran his right hand through his black hair, looking pained. “First, my lady, I must apologize to you for something I have kept from you, and beg your forgiveness.”

Merope’s eyebrows went even higher. She instantly thought of the fiefdom’s finances and the odd circumstances surrounding Morfin’s death. If Severus was going to confess to hiding financial information from his profligate late lord, or even taking part in Morfin’s death—perhaps by deliberately failing to heal him adequately—then she was already prepared to forgive. A loyal vassal _should_ distinguish between the good of the larger family (and holding) and the personal whims of a bad lord. Any lord who never listened to wise advisors, in Merope’s opinion, did not deserve power.

What he said was completely unexpected. “For several years—since the year after your ladyship eloped with Sir Thomas, in fact—I have had a web of contacts among your family’s rivals who occasionally provide pertinent information, information that relates to plans or schemes involving… the Gaunt family,” he finished, grimacing. “Or, as it is now, the Riddle family.”

Merope was astonished. “A spymaster?” she exclaimed.

“That is a very strong term, your ladyship. That said, I suppose you could say that my associates are spies. They pass information. And I received some very alarming information about a plot that concerns your son, Lady Hermione, and you.”

Merope was paying full attention now. “This is very unexpected, I admit,” she said, “and you realize that after this discussion, I must ask that you disclose the names of these people to me. But for now, I just want to know who the plotters are and what they are plotting.”

Severus looked unhappy at the first request, but he was not inclined to disobey her. It made sense that she would want to know about this. He gathered his thoughts before continuing.

“I don’t know if Lord Thomas has told you about the latest goings-on at Hogwarts,” he began.

She nodded, holding up the rolled scroll. “He wrote to me about a disgusting attack on Hermione by most of the young Slytherin girls. She dueled the leader, though—Lestrange’s daughter, unfortunately—and defeated her.”

“That was all he said?”

She gave him a curious look. “Yes. I presume there was more, then?”

“There is more. Perhaps he didn’t want to write this in a letter that could be intercepted... but the Wizards’ Council and their close relatives are quite certain that he sent a bottled memory to the Lestrange daughter’s fiancé across the water. A very compromising memory, apparently of the young lady publicly drunk and in the company of older wizards in a shady inn. Evidently this happened last year, so he could have seen it. In any case, the nobleman broke off the betrothal over it.”

Merope gaped, trying not to smile. That was something Tom would do at his most devious, and it certainly made sense for him not to admit to it in writing. Perhaps he had told Hermione. Merope hoped so. It was good that he had indeed taken his own vengeance on her lead tormentor, and the fact that it was not open and public implied that it was at least partially out of anger on her behalf rather than personal pride.

“Well,” she finally said, “he certainly did not tell me of this in the letter, though I can understand why. He may have meant to tell me when he visits me this winter. But that is very effective revenge. I presume the Wizards’ Council families were not happy?” she added ironically.

Severus looked grim. “There was discussion, my source tells me, of murdering the young people, but that Lords Arcturus Black and Abraxas Malfoy oppose it strongly. They consider the revenge to be out of proportion to the offense—of course, they don’t consider the attack on Lady Hermione an offense at all—but it has made them all realize that any harm to your ladyship’s family will be met with a counterattack. So their current strategy is to attempt to force you, yourself, into a marriage with a wizard in the hope of Lord Thomas eventually being cut out of the line of inheritance.”

Merope frowned. That was not entirely unexpected… after her initial hearing at the Wizards’ Council, where Malfoy had asked her impertinent questions, she had realized that it was something that had occurred to them…. “Did they name anyone?” she asked.

Severus shook his head. “No, and it’s a very preliminary idea. My source tells me that they don’t even know if they could, because this castle is so strong. But it is something that they are apparently contemplating, should they deem it necessary in the future, so I was obliged to inform you.”

She nodded, taking it all in. “I thank you for your continued loyalty.”

“It is an honor to serve you, my lady.”

Obsequiousness did not suit Severus Snape, Merope thought. She appreciated the loyalty but did not demand the groveling. It reminded her far too much of the degrading shows of obeisance that her father had demanded….

“And now, Severus… your contacts? I understand the sensitivity of their positions,” she added.

“I would never question your discretion. Very well.” He lowered his voice and gave his liege the source of the information, observing as her eyes widened in surprise.

* * *

Adelaide Lestrange’s fall from grace remained the talk of Slytherin House, especially the younger pupils, for several days after the fateful owl arrived. Even her own friends began to keep their distance from her in public, which suggested to Hermione that they were not friends at all, but leeches. Then, on the evening before the much-anticipated Hogsmeade visit, another owl from her family arrived, separately from the morning flurry of letters.

So did an owl for her cousin, Draco Malfoy.

Adelaide read her letter and leaped up from her seat in the Slytherin common room. _“Ha!”_ she exulted, waving it in front of Hermione’s face, to the bewilderment of the latter. “Look at this, Mudblood!”

Although the parchment was flapping in the air, Hermione managed to read the pertinent bits. _“Malfoy?”_ she exclaimed. On either side of her, Tom and Harry glanced up sharply.

“That’s right!” the girl crowed. “You may have thought you ruined my prospects, Mudblood, but I went from expecting to marry the greatest wizard in France—”

“Aquitaine, you mean,” Tom muttered.

“—to being engaged to the heir of the most powerful wizarding family in England. It _is_ a barbarous country compared to the homeland of my father’s people,” she sneered pointedly, “but the Malfoys are _civilized.”_

After this description of England, Tom was angry enough to curse her. Hermione tried to take in what she had heard and formulate a response. “Lestrange, your betrothals are not my affair, and I did nothing to you to cost you your first one.”

On the other side of the room, Draco Malfoy was glowering over his own letter. Tom and Hermione noticed. That was… interesting.

“Oh, you may not have sent the memory yourself, but _he_ did,” she said, eyeing Tom. “And he wouldn’t have done if not for his degrading alliance with _you.”_

Tom rose from his seat slowly, with the grace of a snake uncoiling. He cast Adelaide a hollow, chilling smile. “Lestrange, you would be advised not to say another word against her.” He took Hermione’s arm, pulling her gently out of the chair and prompting her surprise—and a rush of pleasure at his touch. “You have no proof of who informed your erstwhile betrothed about your vices. I saw it, yes, but so did others,” he sneered. “You made it quite a public spectacle.”

The girl’s joy dimmed, and her face darkened. “You dare—”

“Yes, I dare,” he hissed. “The only thing degrading is that your family has to scramble a betrothal to your own cousin because you’re too well known as a _drunk_ for anyone else to consider you.” He pulled Hermione close. “And I meant it. You will _leave her alone_ and not say another word against her. She bested you in a fair duel. If it embarrasses you that a young lady who learned about magic only a few months ago beat you, then it _should,_ but that is your problem.” He forked an eye at Draco, who was visibly unhappy at the news. “And perhaps Malfoy’s.”

Lestrange looked as if she wanted to say more, but the look on Draco’s face caught her attention first even though he tried to force his features into a smile when she looked his way. She gave Tom and Hermione a final snarl before heading toward her cousin.

Still holding Hermione’s arm, Tom ushered her into a more private corner. Harry followed quickly.

“All right, Potter, I suppose you had better hear this too,” he muttered.

“Malfoy doesn’t look very happy,” Hermione observed. “I wonder why? They seemed to be on friendly terms until….” She trailed off as she realized it.

“Until the first bit of news broke, yes,” Tom supplied. “He’s embarrassed about her too. And who can blame him for being angry at being someone’s second choice, the person they foisted her on because nobody else would probably take her? But this is still potentially dangerous for us.”

“The families are already allied,” Harry said.

“Yes, but this just affirms it further. And it means that….” He hesitated before taking the plunge. “You had best stick with us, Potter. You’re not without talent. Since you accompany her during the day, I would like you to watch out for any attempts to harm her when I am not there.”

“Of course,” Harry agreed. “Like a knightly guard.”

“Right,” Tom said, rolling his eyes while Harry was not looking. “Like that.”

“I know a member of the Black family,” Harry said eagerly, glad to have been officially accepted. “Sirius Black. He lives in a separate room of my parents’ home—”

“I have heard of him,” Tom said, contempt seeping from his words. “He is not considered part of the family anymore.”

Harry looked as if Tom had thrown cold water on him. “Well, I can still keep my ears open.”

“As you like, but I would not expect anything useful to come of it. It’s more important to gather allies from people who actually have some power.”

“You have been here a year,” Hermione pointed out. “Surely you must have some idea of who is persuadable.”

Tom looked pained and defensive for a moment. “I have not had any friends until… you,” he admitted. “But, yes, there are some who are more disaffected with the Malfoy regime than others. I need to work on them. Now that I am a noble, my views may actually carry weight with them, whereas they didn’t at all last year.”

She nodded, still thrilling over his declaration of friendship. “Daphne and Millicent are all right. Perhaps….”

“Yes, you should continue as you are with them. Don’t push yourself on them as a close friend, though.”

“I had worked that out myself,” she said.

“Another thing that will be interesting to watch is how Malfoy’s views evolve… or don’t,” Tom said, gazing surreptitiously at Draco. “The Hogsmeade outing is tomorrow. They’ll have to go as a couple, of course. We should watch them.”

Privately Hermione agreed with this assessment, but she also hoped that Tom would set aside some time for her during the outing. It would be nice to spend some time together that did not revolve strictly around practicing magic, studying, or scheming for revenge on their enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s right. Without the guilt over being a Death Eater or causing the death of someone he loved, Snape not only doesn’t get bullied into doing penance in academic robes, he also is a spymaster with a network of his own.


	9. The Free Town of Hogsmeade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: Thank you! And here, we have a chapter that is largely about character development and background exposition for storylines that will appear later. There’s also a small hint as to why Harry is in Slytherin House. Don’t worry, the plot will pick up at once, but I think a chapter like this was needed here. My tendency is to want to write “plot,” so I hope nobody minds too much that I have opted to develop Tom/Hermione more.

Tom had been to Hogsmeade before, during the previous year, and he had not been especially interested in it after a visit or two. Although it was all-magical, it was not, in his view, the grand exemplar of what the wizarding community could do. Hogwarts itself was much closer to that, in his opinion. Hogsmeade was, ultimately, a small village of a few score families, boasting of two taverns, a textile weaver and tailor shop, a baker, a confectioner, and a general store. These businesses might be necessary to support a town, but Tom would rather spend his time in the Hogwarts library—and for much of the preceding year, he had.

Things were different now.

Hermione would probably prefer the library herself, he supposed, but at the same time, she had not been to the little town except on the very first day, before the Sorting, and she had not had the chance to see it properly then. There were particular things expected of him now, he supposed; he should take her to see the place. _Perhaps treat her to candy… maybe also something at the Three Broomsticks. It is a tavern, but Hogwarts students visit. It isn’t inappropriate if I am with her. The other one is where the villagers and older students tend to go—and Adelaide Lestrange._

Tom definitely did not want to create any situation that would invite comparisons between Hermione and her nemesis.

Waiting in the common room for her to appear, he mused again about Hermione. He had been doing that a lot, it seemed. _I am just trying to resolve in my own mind what I think of her,_ he thought. For a while, he had seen her as something of a status symbol: proof that he really was a young lord now. He had also considered her as a mentor would consider a pupil, someone to teach, to impress with his own knowledge, to mold in the shape he would like. And it was not that he was suddenly _against_ wanting to influence her views, but Tom found that those ideas of what Hermione was to him now seemed inadequate.

Maybe it was her dueling defeat of Lestrange and her resolve to be strong in the face of hard politics. Tom would have expected the proper, dutiful, idealistic Hermione he had met a couple of months ago to wilt and crumble before the ugliness of Wizards’ Council politics and the conduct of the members’ offspring. That she had instead taken revenge, both public and private, and had approved wholeheartedly of his additional revenge had surprised him. Suddenly, she was not just a trapping of nobility, nor just a lump of clay to shape. She was a _witch,_ powerful and intelligent and worthy of respect. He had known that she was smart and powerful, but it was an intellectual observation. Now, it was more visceral, more personal. He was proud of her, not for his sake, but for hers.

Their relationship was different. He just was not sure what that relationship was, yet—though maybe, just maybe, he really was beginning to see her as a friend.

His musings were interrupted when she stepped through the threshold of the girls’ corridor. He rose from his seat and greeted her, extending his arm to her. As she took it, he could not keep the ghost of a smile off his face. She really was looking very well today, and he was glad of the outing.

She noticed the smile. Her brown eyes lit up, and she beamed back at him, clearly thrilled to the bone that he was smiling at her in a sincere way. Tom was very good at reading people, and he understood. He knew why she was so happy with the unexpected little smile, and the implications of that shamed him. _She did accuse me of being cold to her,_ he thought as they walked down the hallway of the school. _But enough of that. I would hold a wizard nobleman in contempt if he had a great witch for a wife, and yet treated her in such a way that she didn’t expect him to genuinely smile at her. I don’t want Hermione to expect negligence and coldness from me, nor to be surprised when I offer her sincere regard or admiration._

He thought briefly of how his mother would react if she knew of this change in him. She would be delighted—and probably a bit triumphant, given that “bargain” she had made with him that he now suspected was made in bad faith to manipulate him. _Mother said, “Make an effort to become friends with her,”_ Tom recalled. _But would I have noticed her if not for our situation? If she had been allowed to come to Hogwarts on her own, would I have taken notice? Is this a real regard I’m starting to form, or an adjustment to the inevitable?_

His mind whispered that his conduct to Hermione so far had been the adjustment, and this new appreciation of her was indeed real and would have formed anyway. _It hardly matters why this relationship began,_ he decided. _If my mother sees it as a triumph for us to become friends, so be it. She “wins,” but Hermione and I win something more._

* * *

The Three Broomsticks was crowded with young people from Hogwarts, but Tom and Hermione managed to snag a small table for two in a corner that was… not _quiet,_ but less loud than the boisterous central area. As they waited for their food and beverages to arrive, Hermione fingered the ring on her finger—the ring _he_ had given her, Tom noted—and glanced surreptitiously out the nearest window.

“Hogsmeade is a very interesting place,” she said, “but I did not have the chance to read too much about its history. It’s peculiar, though… is the High Master of Hogwarts considered the lord?”

Tom shook his head. “There is no lord,” he said slowly. “Hogsmeade is a free town. They have a mayor, but no lord. Of course, they certainly benefit from the proximity of the castle for protection… and their economy,” he muttered. “They must make a fortune on weekends.”

“But how do they feed themselves without fields?” she asked, astounded.

“There are fields. Hogwarts doesn’t buy its food—most of it—from _Muggles,”_ he said disdainfully. “This ridiculous Muggle war for their throne would make it a risky proposition indeed for our people to depend on Muggles for our _food._ There are farms outside the town that supply the kitchen of Hogwarts, and the village gets a cut. Also, most of the people who don’t own shops have private gardens, a goat, a cow, chickens, or something.”

“A free town,” she mused. “That’s very interesting to me. I suppose that since they’re all witches and wizards, they could protect themselves to a great degree even without the school.”

He nodded. “I think that situations like my mother’s, and the other noble families with magic, must be remnants of the ancient times when people like us were high priests of clans, with authority over the non-magical chieftains. Well… that was how the Celts, my _magical_ ancestors, did it, anyway,” he clarified. “Who can say about these… newcomers.” He was proud of himself to have remembered that Hermione’s heritage was half Norman and to have avoided using a more negative term to describe the current leadership.

Hermione looked uncomfortable nonetheless, and changed the subject slightly. “King Arthur was a great lord, though, and he had a wizard as his advisor instead….”

Little did she know what she was about to unleash. “I have read just enough about King Arthur in my mother’s library—before she put a hex on our family genealogy books—that I have essentially no use for him. He tried to keep the Wizard-King in Exile from the throne—” Tom broke off abruptly, trying to control his temper about this subject. He _really_ wanted to read those books.

Hermione was staring at him. “Your _genealogy_ books? Are you descended from that line too, in addition to Slytherin?”

“On my mother’s side,” he said proudly. “There were references to our descent from Morgana le Fay and Mordred the Dispossessed. I would love to know more about it. She won’t allow me to read it yet, though. She put a hex on the books after she saw me reading one.”

Hermione gazed sympathetically at him. “In a few years, I’m sure she will decide you are old enough. After all, you and I will obtain mastery of magic in three or four years, I’m sure, and we will marry…. If we are old enough for _that,_ you are old enough to learn about ancient family history.” She paused. “I have heard that Mordred was… the king’s natural son. He wouldn’t have been eligible, even if he hadn’t done wicked things.”

“They _claim_ he did wicked things,” Tom muttered. “But… I suppose you’re right about his birth. It’s a shame. I might have been king otherwise.” He smirked at her.

“Don’t you mean ‘prince,’ since your mother is alive?” she said pointedly. “And if you had, I wouldn’t exist, given who half of my ancestors were. Their conquest would have failed. For that matter, _you_ might not exist as yourself. I would bet that your father was descended from people who came to this country after the ancients.”

Tom looked sour for a moment. “I guess so.”

At this point, the food arrived. Tom gazed at it: delicious shepherd’s pie, a staple of Hogsmeade. He was accustomed to hearty food _now,_ but before his mother had come into her title, the food at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade had been somewhat of a shock to him. He still had a lot of appreciation for it. He picked up his spoon and began to eat.

Hermione smiled fondly at him. They had not had too many conversations that weren’t about magical theory or practice. It was quite nice to discuss other subjects, and it seemed to her to be a very good sign for the future. Even when they had differences of opinion, he sincerely considered hers, she noted. That was also good. Her own father had always shown respect to her mother, but whenever they had a difference of view, his opinion became law. Perhaps it would be different among witches and wizards. Witches, after all, had power of their own, and wizards had to acknowledge that if they were at all honest with themselves.

As they finished their lunch and their bowls emptied, something occurred to Hermione. “I am thirteen tomorrow,” she said.

Tom set his spoon down. “I did not know that,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… we don’t observe it. I mean… non-magical people don’t make much fuss over dates of birth.” She seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“Magical people do,” Tom said firmly.

“Muggles solemnly observe the anniversary of someone’s _death.”_

“Well, that’s completely grotesque,” he declared. “You are one of us now, Hermione, so we’ll definitely observe that your birthday is tomorrow.”

* * *

They paid for their meal and left the Three Broomsticks. Tom felt quite good about the entire conversation, and he was glad that Hermione had idly mentioned that her birthday was the following day. He would certainly buy something nice for her at one of the shops. She could not start observing wizarding customs quickly enough, really. Muggles were so ridiculous. Why observe the anniversary of a death? Perhaps, he granted to himself, _Muggles_ would consider it a release from a grim world, and it wasn’t as if they had a choice in the matter anyway. But people with magic did. They could return as ghosts—or they could avoid it entirely.

More to the point, what in the world was wrong with celebrating birth—celebrating life? It was probably religious disapproval, he supposed. Tom was vaguely aware that his mother’s family had followed an ancient, otherwise extinct faith for a long time after it had died out in the rest of England, converting only around the time that Slytherin married into the family and co-founded Hogwarts. This was another thing he wanted to know more about, something that was in the books she had banned him from reading. His mother’s practice was still… idiosyncratic, he supposed. She kept a lot of magical customs that he rather doubted the Muggles would approve of, including observing the old holidays. As far as Tom could tell—not having read the forbidden books to find out for sure—the only major difference between her customs and that ancient religion was the number of deities she acknowledged.

In any case, it made eminent sense to him to observe someone’s birthday. He and his mother had always done so, even when they were poor. He felt sorry for Hermione, and he would buy her some candy, or something at the general store.

As Tom approached the store, someone caught a glimpse of them and called out. Tom and Hermione halted, recognizing the voice at once.

Potter approached them, another boy standing near him. “Hermione. Riddle. A good day for this, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Tom said stiffly. He eyed the companion. “Who is your friend?”

“Oh, this is Neville,” said Potter. “He is in Gryffindor. He stood up for me just now when the Weasleys were….” Potter trailed off, noticing Neville’s awkwardness. “Do you know the Weasleys?” he asked, rallying himself as he changed the subject slightly.

“I do, somewhat,” Tom said, his words frigid. “Not the newest one.”

Hermione shot Tom a private, querying look, wondering what his issue was with the Weasleys. That tone of voice was the one he usually reserved for his enemies. “I have not had the opportunity to make their acquaintance,” she said. “What were they doing?”

“Well, you must understand that my father was a Gryffindor, and so was my godfather Sirius Black, who lives with my family, and so a lot of people expected that I would go there too. The Hat almost placed me there,” he added.

“I knew it,” muttered Tom.

“The Weasleys are a family of boys with red hair—”

“—and nothing to their name,” Tom sneered. “They used to be petty nobles, but they wouldn’t swear to Malfoy—Armand Malfoy—and so they lost everything. I know about it. Everyone eventually learns about it, because they’re so bloody proud of it.”

“Riddle!” Harry gasped. “Hermione is here!”

Hermione chuckled. “I have heard it before, trust me.”

Tom had actually been embarrassed for a moment about accidentally swearing in front of a lady, and annoyed with himself for making a gaffe in front of these boys of lower status, but he continued quickly, to move on. “The Weasleys never tried to improve themselves after that, either. Apparently, whenever one of them wants to leave—to make something out of himself—they consider that betraying the family honor.” Contempt poured from Tom’s words in waves.

“My family wouldn’t swear to Malfoy either,” the new boy, Neville, said quietly.

Tom was brought up short for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “And how did that work out for them?” he retorted.

Neville shrank back for a moment, but in the very next, Harry nudged him, while eyeing Tom through narrowed eyes. Neville took a breath to rally himself. “They actually have done well, if I may say so,” he said. “My great-grandfather Longbottom—the one who renounced his knighthood—was married to a lady of the Black family, so she had money to start with. Malfoy wanted to seize that too, but the law prevented him. _She_ was not the head of the family, the one who refused to take the oath, so she could keep her money.”

“Well, all right, they weren’t _completely_ stupid, but I still would have just taken the oath and kept the property, whether I meant the words or not,” Tom declared.

“Swear falsely?” Neville exclaimed. He had not been shocked at Tom’s use of the word “bloody,” but he _was_ shocked at that.

Hermione knew Tom well enough by now that it did not exactly shock her to hear it, but it did somewhat surprise her that he had _acknowledged_ it, even to boast of his presumed cleverness and pragmatism. She gazed at him with raised eyebrows. Harry, interestingly, had just enough cynicism—perhaps, Hermione thought, from having lived in a village ruled by one of the Malfoys, or living with his godfather, who had been exiled from his own family. Whatever the reason, he did not seem to think it a terrible idea.

“People swear falsely all the time,” Tom said with a shrug. He had noticed Potter’s jaded reaction too.

“My great-grandfather was not an oathbreaker,” Neville said stiffly. “My family did all right over the years. They’ve kept order here in Hogsmeade, and my father is set to be the next mayor after the current one steps down.”

Tom was brought up short by that, but he would not speak and reveal the degree of his ignorance on the topic.

Hermione gave the boy an encouraging smile. “That sounds very different to the Weasley family, then. What did they do to you, Harry?” she asked, politely bringing the conversation back to its original topic.

“The twins and the newest one started to hex me for being in Slytherin,” he muttered. “They said I’d betrayed my father.”

Tom glowered. “That sounds like Weasleys. So self-righteous in their self-imposed poverty.”

“Neville stood up to them,” Harry said, with a grateful look to the other boy. “They tried to hex him, too, but we teamed up and drove them off.”

“What did you use on them?” Tom asked greedily, his eyes flashing.

“Neville got them with a Stupefy, and I knew of a curse that makes slugs issue from someone’s mouth,” Harry said, smirking.

Tom actually laughed at that. Hermione was disgusted for a brief moment at the thought of slugs in the mouth, but it sounded as if these boys had deserved it—and she was in favor of Harry having more friends than just herself. She managed a chuckle as well.

* * *

They bought candy—Tom paid for Hermione’s—and while she was temporarily distracted with that, he slipped into the general store that was next door, leaving Hermione in the company of the younger boys. He considered the items for sale. Hermione would appreciate a book, certainly, but it also seemed less creative than he was truly capable of.

He gazed at the items of jewelry. He’d always had an eye for luxury. There were some nice pieces here… but it was not proper for a wizard to buy jewelry for an unrelated witch unless they were engaged—

 _Oh._ Well, then. Tom’s gaze fixed upon a necklace of silver and opals. That was very pretty… expensive, yes, but it was within his new price range, and in any case, Hermione had never received a gift for her birthday. It would do for all thirteen of them.

He purchased the necklace and had the store owner wrap it in brown paper, which the man did very deftly with a flick of his wand. Tom slipped the parcel inside his robes and stepped away.

“I really need to go back to Hogwarts and study.”

Tom whipped around to see who was speaking. To his surprise, the voice belonged to Draco Malfoy, who was standing next to Adelaide Lestrange and looking very unhappy about it.

“We haven’t even been to the Three Broomsticks,” Lestrange complained.

Tom slunk into the shadows, easing toward the door of the shop.

“You know the last place you should be seen is a pub,” Malfoy grumbled.

“You are with me. And I saw the Mudblood coming out of it with Riddle.”

“She isn’t accused of being a drunk,” Malfoy snapped.

Lestrange raised her eyebrows at him, looking ready to curse him, but she huffed in indignation. “We shouldn’t speak of it _here.”_

Tom slipped out of the store unseen and went back into the confectioner shop, feeling smug about the complete lack of domestic bliss that he had just witnessed.

“Oh, there you are!” Hermione exclaimed when she noticed him. “I was wondering where you were.”

He took her hand. “I just stepped out for a moment.”

Harry gave him a skeptical look, but did not dispute the statement. When they were finished with their sweets, Tom led the small group to the door and stepped out.

Directly in front of him, Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange were in the middle of a shouting row that they did not seem to mind the rest of the village witnessing. Indeed, several townsfolk had clustered in a knot nearby, watching in gleeful fascination.

“I have done _nothing!”_ Lestrange shouted. “I cannot believe you credit the rumors spread by that—that foreigner I used to be betrothed to! He was not even _here!”_

Tom gaped in disbelief that she would speak of her former betrothed that way. Clearly, her devotion to him was gone.

“I never said you did anything! But you _were_ seen stumbling out of the Hog’s Head, and everyone in Slytherin knows about what you keep in your bedchamber—”

Lestrange hissed. “Well, they certainly do _now—_ as well as part of Hogsmeade!” She glared at the small group of villagers. “Enjoy this while you can, peasants, because my father can come here and wipe your memories!”

The group of villagers dispersed at once. Lestrange then noticed Tom and his companions. She snarled in rage. “Having fun, Riddle?”

Tom drew his wand. “I was having a wonderful outing with my betrothed… which is clearly more than _you_ can say. Bad luck, Malfoy,” he said briskly to Draco. “Then a couple of companions joined us for sweets. We were having a fine day until we stepped innocently out of the store, minding our own business, and saw _this.”_

“It is entirely your own fault!” she raged. “And the fault of your Mudblood.” She sneered at Hermione. “How hilarious, a Mudblood with a title and fine robes. You’re still as filthy as the dirt under my feet, no matter how they dress you up.” Petty spite filled her words.

“It sounds as if you have had more drinks than you should already,” Hermione said, her voice quiet and cold. She drew her own wand surreptitiously, the movement hidden by her large sleeves. “Is that so, Lestrange?”

“It is none of your concern!”

Draco Malfoy was edging closer to her, their violent disagreement apparently deferred in the face of enemies. Tom noticed and took Hermione’s elbow gently, pulling her slightly behind him in case one of them attacked. “You’re right, Lestrange—your problems should be none of our concern. I certainly did not want to hear you brawling with Malfoy in front of the town, bringing your personal troubles into the open like a vulgar peasant, and I am not going to get drawn into a fight that is not my own. Now get out of the way, both of you.” He gripped his wand openly, making sure they could see.

“How dare you,” Malfoy began.

Tom pointed the yew wand directly at Malfoy’s face. “How dare _you,_ you mean.” He sneered at Lestrange. “And how dare _you_ force your personal business into the public square and then complain that people hear it! How dare _you_ block other people from attending to their _own_ business. _Get out of the way,_ Malfoy.” His fingers twitched around his wand.

Malfoy seemed to consider challenging Tom, and Lestrange definitely wanted to, but in the end he took her by the elbow and pulled her away, letting Tom’s group pass.

* * *

Later that evening, after a grand banquet in the Great Hall, Tom, Hermione, and Harry trudged down to the Slytherin common room. Harry stepped inside the threshold, briefly gazing at Hermione poignantly—slightly disappointed, but also happy in a melancholy way at the same time. Hermione was looking the other way and did not notice, but Tom did.

 _So I was right,_ he thought. _Potter was interested in her, even if she wasn’t in him. I wonder if I was right to designate him to be her guard… her “knight,” as he put it. Really, that should have been the clue. But at least he has accepted that she likes me, and he’s apparently happy that she has my regard. Even if he was almost a Gryffindor, and apparently descended from Gryffindors, he’s not foolish enough to antagonize me by trying to draw her away from me._

He and Hermione entered the common room after Harry. Tom considered giving her the gift he had bought for her, but it was not actually her birthday yet. It could wait till tomorrow.

* * *

The following day, Tom awakened with the rising sun. That was unusual. He generally slept in when left entirely to his own devices. _It’s Hermione’s birthday,_ he recalled at once, before he even got out of his bed. _It’s her birthday, and she’ll love what I bought her._

As he went through his morning routine, he wondered at what it meant that he was so excited about that fact. Of course, he did expect her to gush over the necklace, to compliment his taste and to shower gratitude on him… but it almost seemed like another part of him was looking forward to observing her own pleasure.

He would have to defer that enjoyment a bit longer, though. Since the Norman invasion, the masters required the pupils to go to the school chapel, where a fat friar presided. There were not any wizard _priests,_ at least that Tom knew of—certainly no trained wizards—but this wizard was trained, and was known to have been a Hufflepuff. He wondered why this man had decided to enter a religious vocation after being trained in magic at the school. Well… there were certainly worse things than having a wizard voice in that particular institution, and although Tom found the Sunday devotional ghastly dull, this friar was at least a kindly fellow who spoke of mysticism and love and such things, rather than judgment and brimstone. It could be worse, indeed.

When they finally headed into the Great Hall for breakfast, Tom was quite ready to present the necklace to Hermione. He sat next to her, as usual, and enjoyed a very good and hearty meal that _almost_ distracted him from the anticipation that was building inside him.

The young people typically remained at the table for a while, talking amongst themselves, especially when they did not have scheduled lessons. Tom listened politely to Hermione’s chatter about the outing of the previous day, and when she appeared to have said all that she had to say on that topic, he reached into his belt pouch and drew out the wrapped box.

“This is for you,” he said solemnly, “for your thirteenth birthday.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she took the package. “Well, thank you,” she said. She pulled at the paper, quickly revealing the painted wooden box that held the jewelry.

“There’s more inside.”

She lifted the metal latch and opened the box top. Her brown eyes popped wide open, and her face flushed pink. “Oh my!” she exclaimed, picking up the necklace and holding it so that the opals glittered in the morning light.

Tom smirked proudly as several of their housemates gathered near or dropped their personal conversations to look. “Would you like to wear it now?” he asked. “It would go well with this robe.” Hermione was dressed in light blue-green with grey trim.

She nodded, embarrassed by the attention and humbled by the grand gift. “Thank you so much. It’s beautiful.”

Tom took the necklace from her and fastened it around her neck. She flinched— _no,_ he realized, she _shivered_ —as his fingertips lightly touched the back of her neck. He pushed that thought right out of his head. “There,” he said, moving his hands away. “It looks just as I thought it would.” It was the polite thing to say, but it was also true. She _did_ look lovely… and he was proud of the looks that other people were giving her, proud that she was his and everyone knew that _he_ was the giver of this gift….

She smiled at him. “This was so unexpected! What day were you born, Tom? I’ll have to remember it.”

“December 31. I will be at my mother’s castle then.”

She nodded. “Naturally. Perhaps, though, my family can visit yours. It would be appropriate.”

“I’m sure something like that will happen.” He gave her a smirk. “So, I take it that you like the necklace?”

She laughed happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is potentially a major spoiler, but I want to clear up something instead of unintentionally setting expectations that this story will go in a direction that it will not. Hermione is a very honorable person, and she is not lying (even to herself) when she says she sees Harry as a friend. I’m not writing Arthur-Guinevere-Lancelot. The recurring mentions of Arthur and his cohort are for a completely different reason, which I’ve hinted at very slightly.
> 
> I’m also not going to inject religious conflict into the story. I just don’t think I could quite get away with purposely not mentioning it _at all_ like JKR, given the era of this story.
> 
> Apparently in the year 1143, September 19 _was_ a Sunday. I did look that up. Why JKR couldn’t be troubled to look at calendars to get things like the phases of the moon correct, or matching up dates with days of the week, baffles me.
> 
> Yes, it’s _that_ necklace. It hasn’t been cursed yet. :)


	10. Things That Grow in Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks as always! This is another character chapter, but it's a pretty important one for several reasons, as you shall see. You guys have raised several interesting questions, and I absolutely intend to answer them in time. Thank you so much for reading!

For Tom and Hermione, the duel had been a turning point, and the visit to Hogsmeade had been another. From that point onward, their relationship was fundamentally different. The rest of the students—minus, perhaps, Harry—would not be able to notice the difference, since they did not make a point of displaying the vulnerability of personal emotion before others. It looked the same when they walked to and from meals, when they visited the little town again over the course of the fall season, when Tom bade Hermione good night. But when they did not have others’ eyes upon them, it was different.

For Tom, it was the curious feeling that came from having an actual friend. He had been socially isolated as a child living with his mother in London, instinctively avoiding most of the other children because they were not like him—they were non-magical, or they did not share his interests and therefore he could not talk to them. Throughout his first year at the school, he had not had a friend either; the Slytherins had scorned him because he was a commoner and a half-blood.

That was changing. There were now some Slytherins—not all, and not the ones who attached themselves to Lestrange or Malfoy, the _Norman_ and Norman-toadying cohort—but _some,_ who respected him as one of their peers because of his mother’s elevation. Still… they were not actually _friends._ At some point over the course of autumn, Tom realized with disquiet that if he had not had Hermione, he might think that this was what friendship was.

He refused just yet to consider that Potter could become a friend too. They got on, but Potter was still a rival for Hermione, as far as Tom was concerned. Even if she insisted that she held to her noble honor, and that she had no romantic interest in Potter, Tom was quite certain that Potter did have some for her. Tom was committed to his strategy of letting his own friendship with Hermione develop so that she would not have to rely strictly on “honor” to stay devoted to him, while also using Potter’s feelings for Hermione—even if they finally did subside into friendship—to keep Hermione… well, _safer,_ if not wholly safe, when he himself could not stick with her. It was better to have another person around in this place, and Potter seemed to take his “job” as Hermione’s unofficial guard seriously.

Tom could tell that Hermione’s fancy for him continued unabated—perhaps even increased, since she was finally getting some real encouragement that he enjoyed her company. But her expression of it grew subtler. She became more comfortable expressing disagreement with him when they talked, rather than adopting his views as _necessarily_ superior to her own, or becoming upset if they differed.

But at the same time, she was rapidly adapting to her new world. The school held a Hallowe’en feast, which was a holiday that Hermione had not observed before. When Tom explained the ancient origins of it, her eyebrows went up, but she did not hesitate to partake of the feast.

“I suppose it makes sense that a holiday about the proximity of the spirits of the dead would persist in a community where we can see ghosts,” she had remarked that evening as a female ghost dressed in elegant robes passed by.

Tom had nodded, pleased.

The budding friendship between them grew; the passage of time whittled away the calendar year. Winter was coming, and before they knew it, it was time for the students to be dismissed to observe Yule and Christmas with their families.

* * *

Although she was fostered at Parselhall, Hermione would spend the holidays with her own family. She would join them after Christmas, just in time for Tom’s birthday. He looked forward to her coming. When his mother’s house-elf showed up at Hogsmeade to bring him home, and she was not going with him, he felt an odd pang. Even though it would only be a few days, he would… miss her. _I have gotten used to her being here,_ he began to think, but instantly interrupted his own thought with another. _No. I enjoy her company._

She gave him a parting glance that was full of anticipation and smiled knowingly at him. Evidently it was on her mind too. His mother’s other house-elf appeared next to Hermione; it would take her home, since that was much more convenient for her family than to have to send some sort of Muggle carriage or wagon for her. Tom frowned in dissatisfaction; it would not have been a problem for Hermione to visit his castle—well, his mother’s castle—first, would it? They could have had a feast, and she could have gone home to her parents at any time. Why hadn’t they planned it that way?

The elf was reaching for Tom’s hand, eagerly and somewhat desperately trying to fulfill the commands of its mistress. Tom sighed and allowed the elf to Disapparate with him. They appeared on the steps of the main entrance and were instantly granted admission.

Tom blinked as he looked around. It was his home, of course, but it was different. His mother had decked the castle—well, probably ordered it decked—with garlands, wreaths, and magically-lit candles. In the grand hall, the great hearth was ready for a Yule log to be placed. The holiday was tomorrow. A light dusting of snow coated the ground, visible through the diamond-paned windows. Blades of dead grass, fallen leaves, and the occasional twig popped through it. A delicious scent filled the indoor air.

Merope had been sitting in the throne-like chair at the center of the great hall, awaiting his return. She rose, rich brown robes streaming behind her as she greeted him. The elf bowed low to her and scurried away with his possessions to store them in his room.

Tom observed that his mother was wearing the regnant’s emerald tiara again, which she did only on special occasions. “Mother,” he said in acknowledgment as she approached. He wondered what was going on. Maybe she had a feast planned to celebrate his return. That would be nice.

“Welcome home,” she said warmly. She looked him head to toe and smiled. “You look very well, Tom.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said briskly. His gaze flitted to the top of her head and then back to her face. “You do as well—and I have to ask, what is the occasion?”

Merope smiled. “You’ll see,” she said.

Tom was not having any of that. “Is there a feast planned tonight, Mother?”

She merely looked at him. “Yes, that is part of it. You should rest, Tom. The elf will bring you a bowl of wassail if you would like.”

“Oh, is that what smells so good?” Tom inhaled the air deeply. “It is. Well,” he said, grinning, “I do intend to keep questioning you… but I can’t turn _this_ down.” He looked around. “That elf must still be in my bedchamber. I’ll be in the library.”

“The library?” she said. “You just came from school.”

“Reading is how I rest.”

Merope shook her head in affectionate amusement, biting her lip to avoid smiling too broadly. “Well, that is definitely you, Tom.”

He wondered for a moment if his mother would come with him, but she turned and headed toward her study. _The joys of administration,_ he thought grimly as he walked toward the vast library of the castle.

Tom closed the tall doors behind him once inside. They were heavy and did not open instantly, so he would have ample warning of an approaching visitor. His mother _could_ Apparate from room to room inside her own castle, but she did not usually do it unless she had to go somewhere that was on the other side and a much higher or lower level. That was not the case for her study.

He summoned the house-elf that was, presumably, either attending to some general chore in the castle or setting out his possessions perfectly. The elf appeared before him with a pop.

“My mother tells me that there is wassail freshly made,” he said.

“Yes, Lord Master Thomas, there is,” the elf said eagerly, glad to be of help. “Would master like some?”

“I would. A large bowl, if you please.”

The elf disappeared, coming back in a moment with the steaming hot drink. It left clouds of white vapor in the chilly air of the castle. Even with magical fires, it was difficult to keep a castle this large warm anywhere except close to flames. Tom sipped the bowl and smiled in pleasure. It really was good.

With the elf gone, Tom was all alone in the library, just as he wanted. He carried the hot bowl to the corner of the library where the family history books were and set it down on a reading table. He gazed at the bookcase that held the books he wanted. The good ones were almost out of his reach… but he was a wizard.

Tom drew his wand and summoned several titles. _Serpent-Tongue: The Life and Mysteries of Salazar Slytherin, A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt, The Lords of the Fens, The Dispossessed Children of the Wizard-King, The Faithless Advisor,_ and _The Book of Morgana._ He smirked broadly as the entire lot of them shifted off the shelves and toward his outstretched hands.

Searing, screaming pain shot through Tom’s hands when the books reached him. He yelped and dropped them in a pile on the library floor. _Mother!_ he thought in fury. What kind of a hex was that? This was completely unnecessary!

Once the pain in his hands subsided, Tom considered the books further. Perhaps not all of them bore curses. He had only touched the one on the bottom of the pile, the one about Slytherin. As disappointing as it was that he apparently would not be able to touch it—it was where he expected he would learn about Slytherin’s Chamber, if it existed—it was possible that he could handle the other books. He pointed his wand at each of them in turn, testing them for spells—as he realized in irritation that he should have done at the beginning. He also attempted to open the covers by magic. To his dismay, the only book that was not cursed with some sort of stinging or burning spell, or sealed against him entirely, was _The Faithless Advisor._

Sighing, Tom sent the rest of the books back to their shelf and picked up the one that his mother had deemed fit for him to read. He was exasperated. He was almost fourteen years old; when _would_ he be allowed to read about his own family history? He scowled to himself as he sat down in the nearest chair.

Something occurred to him. He looked around the area of the library he was in, then remembered his wand and summoned a sheet of paper and an inked quill. Angrily, defiantly, he wrote down the names of the books that his mother had blocked from him. Perhaps the library at Hogwarts would have some of them. If he couldn’t read them here, then he would try to find them somewhere else. Then he picked up _The Faithless Advisor_ and opened its front cover grudgingly. Of all the books that he had wanted to look at right now, this was the one that was least interesting to him. _Which is probably why Mother didn’t hex it,_ he thought mutinously. Still, it was something. He began to read.

The purported author was Dunwen Mac Gant, a seventh-century witch who seemed to have been something of a scholar. That must have been unusual for women in that era, even more so than now, Tom thought. The book itself could not have been more than about a hundred years old, though. He wondered who had translated the original manuscript and how accurate it was. The book was a history of Merlin, advisor to King Arthur, but it was written from a highly unflattering viewpoint. Tom rather hoped that it did indeed reflect the original, even removed as that would have been from the events in question by a century.

As he read the book, he realized with shock that the author was apparently one of his own ancestors. The family spelled its name differently and had not dropped the “Mac” at that date. That made Tom feel much better. The family would not have kept a transcription that misrepresented the work of one of its own. He read on, and as he did, he realized something.

 _Even though Mother did not ban this book to me, the material is shocking anyway,_ he thought, his dark eyes wide as he read over a particular passage. _I knew some of this, vaguely, but the details are even more appalling than I thought._

According to the book, Merlin was the ultimate villain behind the fall of Arthur and Mordred, as well as the dispossession of Mordred’s secret descendants. The wizard had enabled Uther Pendragon, an arrogant, vulgar, entitled Muggle warlord, to rape Lady Igraine, a secret witch. That was the original sin, as it were. Arthur—the offspring of that unlawful attack—was a hapless non-magical buffoon, according to Lady Dunwen’s narrative, led around by his advisor, but he was not the true source of the evil that later ensued. As a younger man, he had distanced himself from his father’s conduct. He had attempted to build bridges with the other children of Igraine and join the two lines. Igraine’s daughter Morgana had thought this an excellent idea.

Tom’s stomach twisted at that little revelation—if revelation it really were. He had always thought that Arthur and Morgana had not known they were half-siblings. If Lady Dunwen’s history was correct, and they _had…_ Tom did not know quite what to think. He wanted to revolt against the idea that his ancestors had _knowingly_ committed incest, but if it had been unintentional, then why would someone fabricate a lie that made them look _worse?_ Let alone someone who was a descendant…. _No,_ Tom thought somewhat reluctantly, _it must be true. That was six hundred years ago, though, and we know better now. People must have thought differently then._ He continued reading, though with great trepidation for what else he might learn.

That was the worst, though. The rest simply angered him, but it was nothing new. Merlin had poisoned Arthur’s mind over time, Lady Dunwen asserted. He had persuaded Arthur to cut off his son Mordred and attempt—to no avail—to have children with the Muggle Lady Guinevere, because it was less likely that any such children would have magic, and Merlin did not think that witches and wizards should rule. He then played Arthur against his own kin, leading to the death of everyone in the direct royal line except the secret daughter of Mordred, who fled the week before the Battle of Camlann.

Tom finished the last of his wassail, which was now room temperature, and closed the book. His heart was pounding in indignation. _A faithless advisor, indeed!_ he thought with contempt, as he put the book back on its shelf. _Imagine what we would have been if not for that villain! All witches and wizards, not just the Gaunt family. And yet, so many of us revere him, because they believe the lies that came later that vilified Morgana and her son._

He gazed greedily at the other books, the ones that were barred to him. If his mother had let him read _this,_ he could only imagine what juicy secrets might be in the others….

He would have to wait, but someday, he would learn everything that those books had to tell him. He vowed that to himself.

* * *

Tom prepared himself for the feast that evening, taking a bath and donning a nice robe in dark evergreen. He and his mother had observed Yule in their little London house, but it had naturally been a small celebration. He wondered what his mother would do for this occasion. The hearth in the great hall should have a large log. He hoped that someone had procured one. He wondered what his uncle’s old customs for the holiday had been.

When he descended the great stone staircase, the first thing he noticed was that his mother was holding not a wand, but a gnarled staff of wood topped with a pale green stone. Whose had that been? Obviously she had found it somewhere in the castle, because staffs were obsolete. Did she mean to light the Yule log with it? He then noticed that Snape was standing next to his mother, dressed head to toe in black. The wizard moved to allow Tom to occupy the place of honor. The villagers and field workers had gathered, many of them looking extremely anxious.

Merope smiled at him briefly before making a quick motion toward the back of the room. The doors opened slowly, revealing a house-elf standing next to Hermione in the entrance to the castle. Tom broke into a smile. This was the surprise that his mother had planned. _And a good one it is,_ he thought as his mother introduced her and she made her way forward to stand next to him.

He smirked at her briefly, enjoying her impressed but somewhat bewildered look. She had never seen a Yule celebration before. Whether all Muggle lords had stopped observing it, or just the ones who had adopted Norman customs, Tom did not know, though he had a suspicion it was the latter. She was in for a treat, anyway.

“My kin, my friends, my loyal subjects,” Merope began, the tiara of House Gaunt shining atop her head in the candlelight, “I have summoned you here to mark the lighting of the great Yule log, which we burn to keep light and heat for our bodies and souls as we observe the coming of winter.” She gazed out at the nervous faces. “I understand that my late lord brother observed this day in a different way. Know that those times are, and will henceforth remain, in the past. We do not torment loyal people, but respectfully burn the bounty of the forest, to mark this day. It is an English tradition that we light this year’s log with the last piece of the previous year’s, and to that end, when I assumed this mantle, I brought the piece that my lord son and I burned last year. I shall cast the flames with a staff of my ancestors. Lord Severus, if you will.”

Snape whisked something out of his robes: a small piece of charred wood. Tom’s eyes widened in awareness; this was the remnant of the Yule log that he and his mother had burned in their little house in London last year. Merope directed the staff she was holding at it and uttered a spell—not in Latin or Greek, the languages that Tom was most familiar with for spellcasting, but in beautiful mellifluous Gaelic. Tom had never heard any spell in that language— _the language of my magical ancestors,_ he thought with a bit of indignation—and it touched something deep in him to hear it spoken. The power was almost tangible.

The piece of wood caught fire with a rich orange flame. Merope carried it ceremoniously toward the hearth and placed it upon the large log that now occupied the space. The magical flame caught at once. Merope turned around and faced her subjects, holding the staff, the pale green stone in the staff and the tiara atop her head gleaming with the light of the flames. It caught Tom’s imagination. In that moment she looked very much like his image of an ancient witch, and he imagined how he might look doing the honors. His gaze shifted to Hermione, whose unruly hair was tinted golden with the firelight. He smiled. She would stand next to him, no doubt, and look the part just as well.

At the proper time, they dismissed to the dining hall, where a feast was awaiting them. As they ate, Hermione whispered to Tom, “That was unlike anything I have seen outside of Hogwarts. Magical customs are so interesting!”

“I’m not sure if this is a magical custom so much as a traditional custom.”

“Well, your mother obviously added some magical elements to it.”

“Yes. Of course… it is the _tradition_ of this country that magic used to play a greater role for everyone, even people without magic, than it does.” He remembered the alternative history of Merlin and Arthur that he had read that afternoon, and the outrage surfaced once more. “I hope it goes back to that. I am afraid that the opposite is going to happen, though. The Malfoys seem very content to let anti-magical customs take hold among the Muggles as long as they get to keep their power over witches and wizards.”

Hermione looked uncomfortable at that subject. “Your mother was impressive,” she said. “She looked so… _magical…_ and I wonder sometimes if I could ever do that.”

Tom smiled at her. “You’re thirteen,” he said. “And I’m almost fourteen. She was, too, once. You can’t compare yourself to a lady her age. You are already very impressive in your own right, and both of us will be extremely powerful when we are adults.”

She seemed to accept this and returned to her dinner. Tom watched her eat, thinking of many things. A peculiar new feeling formed inside him as he stole glances at Hermione. He had a hunch he knew what it meant, but he was not prepared to confront it, so he turned to his own dinner.

* * *

Considerable snow fell overnight, and they awoke the following morning to a blanket of white coating everything outside. It was a fitting introduction to winter, and Tom was pleased. He smirked to himself at the thought of throwing snowballs at Hermione.

He dressed and went downstairs to the family dining room, a small room where the family usually had meals whenever there was no occasion for a grand banquet for Mother to preside. The elves had cooked a nice breakfast, and Tom eagerly began to eat once his mother and Hermione were there. Severus Snape, his mother’s chief vassal, was also present. Tom took note of the fact that he was eating meals in the family dining room now….

Merope greeted them, then turned to Snape. “Since we are among family… and close friends… here, how is the search for the Pettigrew family?”

Snape grimaced. “Not going well, I am afraid. Carrow says that he doesn’t know where the dowager went. The story is that the son is dead, but he isn’t sure of that either.”

Merope frowned. “And the Lestranges are still not inclined to release the Carrows?”

“They are not.”

“They should have done so as soon as they learned that I was alive. The Carrow family is sworn to heirs of… the Gaunts,” she said with some distaste that Tom noticed, “and although my late brother was a bad lord, and certainly harmed them personally, what the Carrows did _was_ oathbreaking, from a strict interpretation. My brother was alive when they left, even if they did not know that I was.” She paused, considering what she herself had just said. “Are the Lestranges afraid I would punish the Carrows for that? Because I wouldn’t.”

Snape shook his head. “I don’t think that is what it is,” he said slowly. “The Lestranges are still angry with your family”—he glanced apologetically at Tom and Hermione—“over the incident early in the fall with the daughter and Lady Hermione, and they think that Lord Thomas exposed her conduct to her former betrothed. I think Lestrange is keeping them sworn to him out of spite.”

Merope glowered at her food. “This is a serious offense,” she said, her words hard. “I have only been a ruling lady for a few months, but I am already tired of this high-handed and arbitrarily lawless behavior. It did not use to be this way, I thought.”

Tom spoke up at once. “I don’t think it was either, Mother,” he said. “This is the doing of the usurping lords.” He glanced at Hermione momentarily. “The Muggle Norman king gave them considerable independence, and they have used it to bully other magical people.”

“There is little, if anything, that we can do about the Muggle political situation,” Merope said. “We have to consider our own problems… and Severus, _somehow_ we’ll have to determine whether the Pettigrew family are actually all gone or not. I need wizarding vassals.”

“Why not raise other families to a title… my lady?” Hermione suggested. “I have a friend at Hogwarts who lives in the town of Godric’s Hollow. He says that there are many magical families who live there… and also in the village of Hogsmeade.”

“Godric’s Hollow is ruled by Lucius Malfoy, the grandson of Armand,” Snape said sourly. “They are his subjects. We can’t poach them.” His black eyes gleamed. “Hogsmeade, though….”

“How did that happen, anyway?” Tom inquired. “Godric’s Hollow being ruled by a Malfoy, I mean.”

Snape sat back. “That is a story. The town was founded by Godric Gryffindor—”

“Yes, my friend mentioned that,” Hermione said eagerly.

Snape peered at her through narrowed eyes. His glare was more intimidating than any words would have been, and Hermione drew back, not inclined to interrupt again.

“Gryffindor founded the town,” Snape continued repressively. “He was also the lord there—the last English one. When the Normans came, he welcomed the magical among them… and was repaid by being booted out of his own castle by the Malfoys.”

“He should have known better,” Tom muttered.

Snape ignored this. “It was Armand Malfoy’s seat until he completed Malfoy Manor in its present location. Then he installed a series of temporary lords there until his son, Abraxas, was old enough to hold it. Once he started to groom Abraxas for the lordship at Malfoy Manor, it passed to Lucius.”

“How _old_ is he?” Hermione exclaimed. “Armand Malfoy, I mean. He has to be a hundred, at least.”

“He is close to High Master Dumbledore’s age,” Snape said. “I am sure that Abraxas is ready to inherit. In any case, Lucius rules Godric’s Hollow, waiting until the day that his father will inherit the true family seat and start to prepare him for it. None of them, frankly, take much interest in the town. It is a stepping-stone for them, a temporary holding for them to learn how to rule. I think they also resent the residents—the magical ones, especially.”

“Interesting,” Tom mused. “One would think they would resent the Muggles more, given what they believe about blood.”

“Muggles are powerless. There is no point in resenting Muggles. But most of the magical families were knights and titled vassal lieges of Godric Gryffindor when he ruled, and most of the Muggle families who have magical children are also descended from that lineage. The magic, in their cases, just skipped a generation or two. But they remember what they used to have—what the Malfoys are keeping from them now. It is not a happy town.”

Hermione was thinking hard about what Snape had said. Harry had not told her any of this. He had not wanted to discuss his hometown, and had always changed the subject slightly to his own family and the family store whenever she brought it up.

 _Harry’s parents are probably descended from vassals of Godric Gryffindor,_ she thought. Harry likely should have a title, by rights. He had been done out of his inheritance just as Tom had for so long.

Tom had arrived at the same conclusion. He glanced at Hermione with a hint of alarm in his face. The idea of Potter with a title… that would raise his position very much as a rival for Hermione, if that happened….

He took Hermione’s hand under the table, invisible to the adults, prompting her surprise. He caressed her fingers. “The friend that she spoke of stood by her after the ugly incident with Lady Adelaide Lestrange,” he said. “It is only natural that we would want the best for our proven friends, and it is a dreadful pity that Mother cannot swear them to her service here.” He pasted a false smile on his face, hoping that its insincerity was not apparent to anyone else.

* * *

Tom enjoyed a happy day with Hermione, luring her out into the snow-covered courtyard after he had spent time making a large pile of snowballs. He sent them at her with a flick of his wand, watching and laughing as she tried vainly to take cover.

“Should have cast a Shield Charm,” he called out as she sat down in a heap of snow, covered in yet more of it.

She stayed there, burying her head between her knees as flakes continued to drift down from the sky, dotting her frizzy hair. Tom became alarmed. Had he hurt her feelings? He hadn’t meant to… it had been in fun…. He walked gingerly to where she sat in the snowbank.

In a flash, Hermione grabbed his legs, tripping him. He collapsed in the snow, getting soaked and cold immediately. She dumped an armful of snow unceremoniously on top of his head, laughing uproariously. Tom realized at once what had happened. She had tricked him into coming over, pretending to be upset.

“I wouldn’t have been able to get _you_ if I’d cast a spell,” she laughed. Her eyes were shining. In spite of himself, Tom laughed too.

* * *

Unfortunately, she had to return to her parents’ castle on the twenty-fourth to prepare for their Christmas feast. She would stay there for about a week, returning to Parselhall for Tom’s birthday on the thirty-first, the last day of the year. She had promised him a gift.

His mother held a Christmas feast herself. Tom was pleased, even though he missed Hermione. It just seemed natural now that she should sit next to him at grand banquets. Come to think of it, she had been at every grand banquet he had attended since his mother gained her title, including those at Hogwarts. To Tom, there was a gap for this feast, an empty spot. He always talked to Hermione at these dinners. He _liked_ talking to Hermione. It just… wasn’t right that she wasn’t here.

 _She’ll be here again in a few days,_ he reminded himself as he polished off a tender, juicy chunk of goose.

* * *

December 31, 1143 dawned clear and cold. The snow was old now, but the temperature had not risen above freezing since Yule, so the ground remained white when Hermione appeared at the entrance to the castle that morning, carrying a large parcel awkwardly.

“I am a bit worried about this,” she confessed as soon as she was welcomed inside. “I cast spells to keep it warm, but it is _so_ cold, and I am not quite sure….”

Merope picked up the parcel and carried it to the fire in the family parlor. “If it is something that needs to be kept warm, perhaps Tom should open it now,” she suggested. “We were going to have a special dinner tonight in the family dining room, but it _is_ his birthday already.”

Hermione looked grateful and relieved. “That would be for the best.”

Tom had no qualms about not waiting until dinner. A gift was a gift, and Mother was right—it _was_ his birthday. He strode to the fireplace and began to fiddle with the latch of the box before remembering his wand. He drew it from his robes, flicked it at the box, and opened the metal latch.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. Inside the box was a coating of wood chips and dead grass lining the bottom of the box—and coiled into one corner, half-buried under grass, was a harmless brown grass snake. Tom extended his arm eagerly and hissed a greeting to the snake in Parseltongue.

The snake lifted its head. Its tongue flicked out of its mouth, as if the animal was contemplating this “speaker” and considering whether to offer its loyalty. In a moment, it was decided: The snake slithered around Tom’s wrist, hissing back in its own language.

Hermione watched, transfixed at the exchange that she could not understand. Merope _could_ understand, and she knew that Tom was saying nothing untoward or sinister, but this still brought back unpleasant memories.

 _Tom is nothing like Morfin or my father,_ she told herself sternly. _He is my son. He just happens to be able to speak to snakes, as I can myself. It was a good gift for Hermione to give him. Tom has wanted a serpent familiar for a long time, and he meant to buy himself one when we were poor, but since we became rich, the idea of spending money lost its special significance. It no longer had the same meaning—but a gift from her does have meaning._

“This is a female snake,” Tom remarked for Hermione’s benefit. “I think her name should be….” He hesitated, thinking. He hissed to the snake queryingly, then looked back at the women. “Well, she approves of my idea. Her name is Dunlaith, the ‘brown lady.’”

The snake flicked its tongue out once more. Hermione beamed.

That afternoon, Tom and Hermione stayed huddled inside the library for warmth. The little snake was curled next to a large lighted candle, which rested on a stone and warmed it. Tom now had a new reason to keep warm, he thought. This snake— _Dunlaith—_ was special in a way that would have been hard to find in a snake that he had purchased himself, now that he was rich. _A wizard’s animal familiar should not be a trinket purchased idly at a store with money to spare,_ he thought, as he attempted—and failed—to read a book. _The acquisition itself should have meaning. An animal saved from near-death, or raised from a young age, or purchased with the fruits of labor and patient saving—or given as a meaningful gift by a person I… care for._

He gave up on the book and set it down on the table. Hermione was standing by a window, not even attempting to read. She turned around as Tom approached. Her face flushed pink, which Tom noticed. That had not happened in a while.

“Hermione,” he said, “that was a wonderful gift. _She_ was a wonderful gift,” he corrected himself. “She will be my familiar… and you gave her to me.”

Hermione smiled at him, her face somehow growing even redder.

“Where did you get her?” he asked.

“I found her in my family’s castle,” she said. “I’m sure she was trying to keep warm. I was afraid that she was dead when I saw her, but when I realized that she wasn’t, I resolved that I would save her life and then give her to you, since you can speak to snakes. I wish I could.”

“You saved her life?”

“I made a potion,” Hermione said. “And then I summoned mice to feed her. She perked up after the potion, though.”

Tom was extremely impressed with her. Warmth suffused his whole body at this narrative. It was the same feeling he had experienced at Yule, and he knew what it meant then but had told himself he would ignore it. That resolution had not lasted very long… and really, why _should_ he ignore it? They were engaged. And although it had not seemed “real” at first—it had felt like what it was, a political alliance—that wasn’t all that it was now. He did not suppose that it was yet all that it _could_ be someday, but he did like her, and they were friends, and he was feeling new things for her now too that were a bit different to friendship. He glanced at the snake, now cozy and warm next to a magically lit candle that was providing it with extra warmth due to the spell. He smiled and then turned back to Hermione.

“Hermione,” he said without prelude, “I think… I would like to kiss you.”

Her eyes flew wide open, and her face was as red as a beet. “Tom,” she said, “is that—I mean—”

“Do you not want to?”

“It’s not that at all,” she breathed. “I just—I’ve never—”

“Of course you wouldn’t have,” he said. “I haven’t either, though.” He regarded her, watching as relief spread over her face at that admission. “We’re old enough… and why shouldn’t we?”

She smiled and leaned forward. Tom hesitated. He really had little idea of what he was doing…. _But neither does she,_ he thought with sudden relief. He cupped her cheek and leaned in. Their lips touched. Her eyes fluttered shut.

They stayed like that, lips touching, closed and innocent, for a few moments before separating. Hermione was flushed, but she was beaming like the sun. Tom smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "alternative history" of Arthur and Merlin that Tom read may be "true" in this AU, and it may not be. While revisionist history was an important part of _Choosing Grey_ , I'm not going to be quite as clear in this AU about what is revisionist and what isn't.
> 
> I apologize if there are any major inaccuracies regarding medieval Yule traditions.
> 
> Also, I can’t think of any reason why Tom would have named a pet snake Nagini, a Hindi name, in this era, unfortunately.


	11. Every Piece a Chess Player

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, friends, and thank you once more. :) I need to say something about a subject that several of you have raised in your reviews, especially on ffnet. There is indeed something beginning to develop between Merope and Severus. What this turns into, given the current ambiguous situation with Riddle Sr. and the sleazy plans of the Malfoy cohort for her to marry someone else, is not a question that I can answer just yet. Rest assured that it will be an issue for quite some time, though! And on that note, I had also better say something about the expected length of this story. I have not outlined it chapter-by-chapter, so I’m only guessing this based on my (complete, but not demarcated) outline—but I would estimate that there are 30-40 chapters remaining. Not total, remaining. In other words, this is going to be a long one, so buckle up!

Tom and Hermione exchanged a couple more kisses at Parselhall, but none that were more intense than that first one. Somehow, without actually discussing it, they simultaneously agreed not to jump off the brink too soon. Tom wondered at that. He liked Hermione and had no reluctance anymore in admitting that to himself. But he was not quite ready to do what he knew other boys sometimes did—though not usually with their fiancées, granted. He was cautious, and _she_ was cautious, and they had an unspoken mutual agreement not to risk what had worked so far.

They also grew closer in the few days before they had to return to Hogwarts. There was no reason not to sit very close when they were in the library, or surreptitiously hold hands while exploring the castle. It was as if the innocent kiss had dissipated some tension between them, making it more comfortable now for them to engage in these everyday shows of affection. If they _wanted_ to kiss again, they could without anxiety, since they already had done so; but there was no reason to fixate upon the idea, since it was not an intimidating unknown anymore.

Although Merope did not comment to Tom about it, she had observed the subtle changes in their behavior to each other. Before they had gone off to Hogwarts, the sincere affection had been all on Hermione’s side. Tom had tolerated it, but his own demeanor had been notably cool and emotionless in comparison. That was not the case any longer, Merope noted with pleasure and satisfaction. It was a great relief to her. She was glad to have done something good for a deserving young witch, but she was also practical-minded. The only significant material things that House Riddle would get out of the alliance were a partner with whom the heir could have future children, and a sizable sum of dowry money. The Grangers’ private militia would be useful in a crisis, yes, but only if stationed behind the magic-protected walls of Parselhall to reinforce the much scanter Riddle forces. A magical attack would cut through them like a knife through butter otherwise. The _practical_ benefits of the alliance were nothing special, so if Tom had not come to like Hermione, it would have been hard to justify cementing a marriage that would bring unhappiness to both of them. Merope had not thought it would actually come to that, but she felt relief that she was correct at the same time that she congratulated herself on _being_ correct.

On the whole, Tom was ready to return to Hogwarts by the time that day came. He reached out for Hermione’s hand while the house-elf moved to Apparate them to Hogsmeade. She grasped his slim, elegant fingers and smiled subtly at him. Merope noticed that too as they disappeared. A smile of her own formed on her face.

* * *

Tom and Hermione noticed that evening that the relationship between Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange had not warmed up. The unhappy couple still sat apart from each other in the Slytherin common room, and they only spoke—and then only perfunctorily—at the welcome feast that night. Tom felt more than a little bit smug. If he could consolidate support for himself among the dissatisfied, as he meant to begin doing over the next several months, Draco Malfoy would likely be his primary political rival in Slytherin House. While the rivalry was certainly unchanged, it was a source of petty satisfaction to Tom that he liked Hermione, whereas Malfoy obviously could not tolerate his cousin as a prospective wife.

Harry Potter sat near the pair, obviously in their confidence, but he too seemed to have understood the subtle change in the relationship between Tom and Hermione that had occurred. There was still a hint of melancholy to his countenance, but with it, resignation. Tom _almost_ felt bad for him… but not quite. _Hermione is mine,_ he thought to himself, _and Potter needs to accept that. At least it appears that he is beginning to._

That night, Tom rose to see Hermione off to the girls’ corridor as he had done many times in the previous calendar year. He lifted her hand to his lips… and rather wished that he could kiss her good night on her cheek, or mouth. A pang shot through him. But too many people were watching, and although there was nothing personally compromising about the two of them exchanging a kiss, it was a form of vulnerability that nobles were unwise to betray to their peers. He gazed at her face with a grimace… but she understood. With a lopsided, sympathetic smile, she squeezed his hand and headed to her bedchamber.

* * *

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the new year was unseasonably warm, and more students than normal wanted to visit the village as a result. Tom was looking forward to it. He had been unable to find a private moment when he could talk with Hermione and share affection, and although they would not have privacy in the village either, there was still plenty of opportunity to steal away to the woods—or even some place in the castle after they returned from town. There would be far fewer people inside.

Hermione seemed to anticipate the outing as much as Tom, and for similar reasons. She smiled as they exited the castle and the sunlight caught their faces. Potter watched them leave, then waited at the Hogwarts entrance for his new friend Neville to catch up from Gryffindor Tower. Contentedly Tom walked with Hermione until they reached the Three Broomsticks, and then they went inside.

“We would like an alcove somewhat removed from the noise,” Tom said in an undertone to the innkeeper. “Something with a little privacy.”

The innkeeper glanced at Hermione. Her gaze flickered to the silver ring on Hermione’s hand, and she looked knowingly at Tom. Tom sneered. Their relationship was absolutely none of this witch’s business, and she should not make any presumptions about her _betters,_ he thought arrogantly. The innkeeper led them to a secluded table in a side area off the large common room. They ordered the food and beverages that they wanted, and once the witch was gone, turned to Hermione with a real smile.

She spoke first, however. “I have heard that there is a room in the castle on the seventh floor that no one can enter if someone else is using it.”

Tom had heard of this rumored room as well, in his previous year at school. “So have I,” he said slowly, “but I don’t know if it is the best idea. If anyone _did_ see us leaving, they might… well… get the wrong idea.”

In a fraction of a second, Hermione blushed deeply at the implication.

“I would want to find a spot that is private, but that does not take away _our_ ability to hear if someone is coming,” he continued, trying to avoid smirking at her blush. He gazed at her thoughtfully. “We’ll find a spot that’s just for us, I am sure.”

Their food and drinks and arrived, and they began to eat. Tom felt very complacent indeed. As he gazed at Hermione, he realized he was readily able to imagine a life with her by his side in the grand castle at Hangleton. They were bright and magically powerful. They would rule well and create an impregnable seat of political power to truly counter the Malfoys, since the first and most obvious possibility, Godric’s Hollow, had failed to fill that role—or so Tom saw it. It was a pleasant thought.

At the end of the meal, he offered Hermione his arm and escorted her out the back door of the inn. It led to a trail of a street that had almost no human traffic, which he knew would be the case. The closest feature was the grove of trees bordering the village.

They walked surreptitiously into that grove and stood under a defoliated oak tree. Hermione did not waste any time. She wrapped her arms around Tom’s waist and hugged him tightly.

He suppressed a chuckle at the innocence of the gesture she had chosen to make. It relieved him, too, in a way. He supposed that the time would come when they wanted to engage in stronger affections, and until it did, they should not force it. He embraced her and cuddled her bushy head against the side of his neck. Yes… this was nice. He reflected that he had held her after that attack in the first week of school, but this was different. He was not holding her to comfort her after a horrible event, but because he wanted to return her affections.

They remained in that embrace for a while, swaying almost imperceptibly, until they broke apart and drew slightly away from each other.

“I wonder if we’re missed,” Hermione murmured.

“I doubt it unless your friend Potter is looking for us,” Tom replied, but there was no malice in his words.

They linked arms again and exited the grove of trees, reaching the gravelly back street again. With a sigh, Tom took a left turn to cut through the alley between the Three Broomsticks and the next business in order to reach the main street of Hogsmeade again.

Halfway down the alley, a cloaked figure jumped out, wand sweeping through the air. The person sent a spell directly at Hermione.

Tom grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the way of the oncoming jet of red light. He drew his wand and flung a Shield Charm in front of her while she reached in her robes for her own wand. _You need to be faster, Hermione,_ he thought frantically as the hooded figure scoffed and cast a violent spell that dissolved Tom’s shield. The wavy field of magic broke apart and dissipated before their eyes.

The attacker cast another spell, this one verbal. It was aimed more at Hermione. She ducked, and it hit a pile of rubbish in the alleyway. The garbage erupted in flames. The voice was… a woman’s, Tom realized with surprise.

But he was furious now. He did not know exactly what the spell was, but anything that would start a fire if it missed a living target was violent and powerful. This looked very much like an assassination attempt now.

Hermione was ready at last. Fury filled her eyes as well, and she sent a return curse at the attacker, a Reductor. The curse struck target, and the woman was blasted backward into the main street of Hogsmeade.

Tom and Hermione rushed forward to confront the person, but before they made it—before they could even see the person’s face—she twisted on the ground, Disapparating.

The villagers and students who were milling about the street stared at Tom and Hermione as they dashed out. “What happened?” someone called out.

“We were attacked in that alley!” Tom exclaimed. He turned to the questioner. “Did you see that woman’s face? Did anyone?”

Several of the people stared blankly, but others shook their heads. “Her hood never fell off,” a Ravenclaw pupil replied.

“Blast it,” Tom swore. He grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her close. “We need to go back into the castle now.”

She did not disagree. In a rush, they hurried back inside. Along the way, they passed a pair that Tom had not expected to see: Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange.

* * *

They had had to find a private alcove in the castle rather more quickly than either had anticipated, and certainly not for the original purpose they had talked about in the Three Broomsticks. But there was such a place in the library, and no one was visiting that spot on a warm, almost springlike Hogsmeade weekend.

“That was a woman,” Tom muttered. “That was an assassination attempt—I am pretty sure that curse was potentially lethal if it had struck you in the wrong place—and a witch did it.”

“Is that unusual?” Hermione asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Assassination attempts aren’t ‘usual’ anyway! But… it wasn’t Adelaide Lestrange, since we passed her on the way in.” He frowned. “I really thought it must have been until then.”

“Would she actually try to kill me? I know she hates me—hates both of us—but _murder?”_

Tom sighed. “Maybe you’re right. But still… her family is brutal. Most magical noble families are perfectly capable of murder, Hermione. My mother isn’t a killer, but most would at least consider it.” _I probably would too, if it came to it,_ he thought, but he kept that to himself.

“But we _saw_ her,” Hermione reminded him. “It was someone else.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “and we have to find out who. I think I should question both Malfoy and Lestrange once they return… but since Lestrange is _purportedly_ a young lady, you may have to be the one to do that.”

“You’re very certain that she had something to do with it?”

“I am not _certain,_ but we have to start somewhere.”

“Could we question them together?” she inquired. “Both of us corner both of them?”

He nodded. “We could.”

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Abraxas Malfoy picked up the empty silver cup and carried it away from the table that sat next to his father’s great chair. He brought out his wand and cast a cleaning spell on the inside, then replaced it in the display cabinet in the grand family parlor. No servant was permitted to serve the high lord his personal tonic. Armand Malfoy sat still for a few moments, appearing almost dead with his heavy-lidded eyes closed. Then he breathed deeply and opened his eyes. He smiled at Abraxas, an expression that was almost a sinister leer even though the old wizard did not intend precisely that.

“Are you feeling better, Father?” Abraxas asked.

Armand grinned. “I always feel better after that. Thank you, my son.”

“May we let Burke in?”

“Certainly.”

Abraxas left the room and returned shortly, accompanied by a grubby-looking though relatively well-dressed wizard. Armand gazed at the guest impassively as his son and Caractacus Burke took their seats.

“Do you care for refreshment?” Abraxas asked Burke.

The latter smacked and licked his lips, much to the disgust of the Malfoys. “That would be good,” he said.

“Very well. I shall have an elf bring us some wine.” Abraxas snapped his fingers, and a wide-eyed, beaten-down young house-elf appeared. A flash of resentment appeared in the elf’s face momentarily, but he did his master’s bidding and promptly returned with a very fine vintage of wine. The wizards began to drink.

“You are looking very well,” Abraxas remarked to Burke, not entirely honestly. “The manor house is providing a good income, I take it?”

Burke nodded. “I still get a cut of the profits of the shop, even though my old apprentice Borgin runs it now. And the manor house has got a fine farm. I have to make a tribute to Lord Arcturus, of course, but it’s very productive.”

Armand finally began to speak. “We have invited you here to offer you a proposition. You have a manor but no title. I presume you would like one.”

Burke’s eyes widened. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked. “But I’m a vassal of Lord Arcturus Black, my kinsman. He would need to raise me.”

“I suggest something else,” Armand said. “At the hearing for your petition for your manor, there were two other cases that we heard: a Mudblood wanted to go to Hogwarts, and the daughter of old Lord Gaunt wanted her family estate and title. We denied the Mudblood and granted the witch… but since the Mudblood’s family was noble, they went behind our backs and made an alliance with the Gaunt lady.” Malfoy glowered. “My fellows on the Wizards’ Council decided to let her into the school because of that. I was against it, but I was overruled.”

“Father,” Abraxas said quietly.

Armand took a deep breath. “The lady’s son is a half-blood. I don’t like letting half-bloods, blood-traitors, and Mudbloods exploit us. We have to keep a tight grip on power, and letting them ‘win’ shows weakness. That village that my grandson Lucius rules, for one, could be a seat of discontent. The solution that we thought of is for the woman, Lady Riddle as she styles herself, to marry a wizard so that she can have another heir, and the half-blood and his Mudblood get cut off. You came to mind for that role.”

Burke stared at Malfoy in amazement. “My lord, I… I appreciate that you thought of me… but what about her Muggle husband? Is he dead?”

The Malfoys looked uncomfortable. “We do not know. We should certainly find out, as well as discover whether he formally ended the marriage, but he’s a Muggle, so it would not be hard to remove him.”

Burke scowled. “Well, all that aside, you’re talking about a dirty blood-traitor! And you’re awfully confident that she could have another heir. She’s over thirty!”

“She says that she can still conceive. Your first marriage was unfruitful. This would be an opportunity for you to sire the heir to an estate, a pureblood heir.”

Burke shook his head briefly. “I wouldn’t be in charge of that estate, even as her husband. If we were Muggles… but fortunately we’re not. It’s _hers._ I’d be her consort, and that’s just not—I mean, that’s not a real title. It’s a title with no power. As it is, I may not have a title, but I at least am master of my own house… subject to Lord Arcturus, of course. And to marry a blood-traitor who’s gone and slept with a Muggle, and wants her wizard son to sire children on a Mudblood… it’s a disgrace. No disrespect intended to your lordship.”

Displeasure filled Lord Malfoy’s face. “It is disrespectful whether you intended it or not!”

“Then I am deeply sorry, my lord, and I ask for your pardon… but I just cannot marry someone like that. And I don’t think Lord Arcturus would approve.”

The two Malfoys exchanged a glance. “Lord Arcturus is more cautious, it is true. He makes the correct observation that Lady Riddle’s castle is well-protected. But if he should change his mind about this matter, you had best obey your direct lord.”

Burke nodded. “I swore to him.” He paused for a moment before looking up at his host and host’s son with eager eyes. “I can still be of use to your lordships,” he said.

“And how is that?” Abraxas asked.

Burke leaned forward, grinning. “When I ran the shop, fourteen years ago the woman, Lady Riddle—though she wasn’t a lady then—came to the door, her belly heavy with child, and offered this item to sell to me. It was the locket of Salazar Slytherin. I bought it for cheap, the best deal I ever made. Still got it, too.”

Abraxas sneered. “That is very well for you, but what has that to do with anything?”

“Well, nobody can open it unless they can speak Parseltongue.”

“And…?” Abraxas prodded. “Are you suggesting using it to pressure Lady Riddle into something? Because I hate to break it to you, but she is very wealthy now. She can buy it back at its proper price, no doubt.”

Burke grinned. “I’m sure she could, but what about that son of hers? Word has it that he’s a proud one. He wouldn’t like it one bit if she bought it back at a hundred times the price I got for it. Maybe _he_ is the person to work on. Offer him the locket in exchange for… whatever it is that your lordships want. Severing the relationship with the Mudblood’s family, I assume?”

“Young Lord Riddle is not in a position to sever that relationship, and my grandson reported this winter that he and the Mudblood appear to _like_ each other.”

“Well… they disgraced Lord Rodolphus’s daughter. Maybe if something like that were done to _her,_ they’d have little choice but to end it whether he liked her or not. And if they do like each other, there might be compromising information, if you take my meaning.”

The Malfoys exchanged another glance, this one openly disgusted. Armand Malfoy rose from his chair. “Thank you for your visit, Burke,” he said coldly, “but we completely disagree that manipulating the self-righteousness of a fourteen-year-old half-blood is a strategy worthy of us. And unless you know something we don’t, there is no information that could lead to the outcome you desire. If they’ve consummated their betrothal, or even come close, they would marry _immediately_ if that were revealed. Do you not realize that?”

Burke hesitated. “Well, the locket, then—”

“The locket is irrelevant! The boy is surrounded by relics of his family now. Why do you assume that _that_ one would be so special to him?” Abraxas exclaimed. “Who was Slytherin, after all? Just an English schoolmaster who fled his country. And, truthfully, our problem with the Granger alliance is what it symbolizes: defiance. Unless Lady Riddle marries a pureblood wizard and has another child, the purity of their blood is already lost. What difference does marriage to a Mudblood make in that scenario? What we _want_ from them is submission. We want our power reaffirmed. The sensible course is the one we have proposed, and I hope that you will see reason in time.”

* * *

Tom and Hermione lurked in the atrium the afternoon of the Hogsmeade visit, pretending to read, but actually waiting for Draco and Adelaide to return. Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, and a third person—a somewhat goofy-looking blonde girl—turned up, greeting Tom and Hermione. Potter introduced the girl as Luna Lovegood. Tom vaguely recognized the surname, and he was pleased that Potter had another female friend, even though he could not detect any particular interest on the part of either of them. Perhaps it would happen with time, though.

When the well-born pureblood couple—looking unhappy as always—did show up, Tom took note of the almost two-foot distance between them as they walked together. A smirk formed briefly on his face… but it quickly dissipated. He turned to Hermione and nodded subtly at her. She gave him a knowing smirk, and they quietly rose from their seats to follow Malfoy and Lestrange as they passed through the corridor.

“Stop walking.”

Malfoy stopped abruptly, whirling around to see who had spoken. He faced Tom, whose wand was directed at him. He made to reach for his pocket for his own. Lestrange’s eyes widened at the sight of Hermione, grim-faced like she had never seen before, and the latter’s wand pointed straight at her head.

“Do not draw on us,” Tom warned.

Malfoy seemed for a second as if he wanted to defy Tom’s order, but he quickly thought better of it. Lestrange returned a sneer to Hermione. “What do you want?” Malfoy snapped.

Tom moved forward until the tip of his wand was touching Malfoy’s robes. He met Malfoy’s blue eyes with his own dark ones. “Lady Hermione was attacked in Hogsmeade today,” he said. “While we were exploring a grove of trees, someone lurked in an alleyway for us and attacked her with extremely violent spells as we made our way back to Main Street. Do you know anything about it?”

Malfoy glared. “We had nothing to do with it! I _saw_ you on the way to the village, Riddle. It wasn’t us.”

“We know it wasn’t you,” Hermione spoke up, glaring at Lestrange. “What he asked you is if you _know_ anything about it.” Tom shot an admiring look at her.

Lestrange swallowed and glared at Hermione, then at Tom—who, Hermione noted, focused suddenly on the girl’s eyes. “I have better things to do with my time than think about you,” she spat.

“You are quite sure of that?” Tom pressed, his words hard. “You didn’t station anyone there? Either of you?” His gaze remained focused on Lestrange.

“What do you take me for? I certainly have servants at my disposal,” she said arrogantly, “but my family’s magical vassals would not be willing to lurk in filthy alleys waiting for you to emerge from your tryst in a forest—”

Anger overtook Hermione, and she cast a hex at the girl. It struck home, and Lestrange grunted as the Stinging Hex dissipated over her body. Tom gave Hermione another admiring look.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Lestrange got out.

Tom stared hard at her for another moment before turning to Malfoy. “What about you?” he snapped.

Malfoy quailed. “I didn’t know anything happened!” he exclaimed. “I swear I didn’t!”

Tom quickly released him. “Very well. You must understand, though, why we felt that we had to question you, given what Lady Adelaide did to her last fall.” He lowered his wand, and Hermione followed his cue.

Malfoy quickly made to dart away, giving Hermione the odd mental picture of a white-furred rodent or other small animal scurrying to safety. Lestrange looked angry as she followed him, but she did not attempt to fight Tom or Hermione.

Tom quickly led Hermione back into the library to the same private spot they had used earlier in the afternoon to discuss the event. He gave her an admiring smile.

“That hex was impressive,” he said. “You actually beat me to it.”

“I was the one she insulted,” Hermione said, a smile of her own playing at the corners of her mouth.

“True,” he said. “It was still impressive, though.” He smirked at her.

She colored faintly under his gaze, then met his eyes with hers again. “What do you think, then?”

“They were telling the truth.” He said the words rapidly, emotionlessly, as if to get them out of the way and not dwell on them.

Her brow furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Hermione, do you know what Legilimency is?”

Her eyes popped. “Yes,” she breathed. “I read about it when I was reading on my own… you can _do_ it?”

He nodded proudly. “I’ve been able to do it for several months. I don’t consider myself a _master,_ but I realized I had the ability, so I decided to cultivate it. They were telling us the truth… but that means that this was something someone else organized. And that is a problem.”

She considered what he was saying. “Do you think it’s someone on the Wizards’ Council?”

“I don’t think it’s official at all,” he said grimly. “I do wonder about Adelaide’s mother… she has a reputation… but it could be someone else. My mother has a former vassal family named Carrow, a brother and sister, that went to the Lestranges before she assumed the title. If they transferred their loyalties, the sister is another possibility. And then it could have been a witch assassin that someone hired.” He scowled. “I wish we had apprehended whoever it was, or someone on that street had seen her face.”

Hermione had no response to that.

“I wonder, now….” Tom trailed off, apparently changing his mind about whatever he was going to say.

Hermione did not let it pass. “You wonder what?”

He winced but plunged forward anyway, since she had called him out. “I wonder if maybe we should get married early, like this summer.”

Hermione gazed at him in shock. She felt her cheeks becoming flushed again, but that was not going to influence her response to him. “What?” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be able to go to school if we did!”

“That’s the point. I am not sure you’re safe here. You could still learn, just under the tutelage of someone in my mother’s castle… perhaps Lord Severus.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Tom, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I _want_ to get a full magical education. Lord Severus doesn’t seem to like me—”

“That’s just his way.”

“I don’t want to do that,” she said firmly. “I do want to marry you, but not now, and not this summer. I am sure that Lord Severus is a very intelligent wizard, but the greatest teachers of magic in Britain are here, at this school. Our parents did not mean for us to marry until after our education was finished. I am able to defend myself, as you saw this afternoon, and I’ll only become better at that as I learn more magic.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. “I just want you to be safe.”

She leaned in. “I will be safe. I will be safer if I learn magic from the best witches and wizards that this country has.”

“That’s true,” he repeated. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Besides, if we got married early, _you_ would still be able to come to school here. I don’t want us to be separated, either.”

He smiled. “All right. You make good points… but we’ll have to be careful.”

“We’ll have to stick together.”

“That’s not a burden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly.


	12. Tensions On All Sides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and you know the drill by now—thanks, etc. (though I do mean it!)
> 
> Nobody has said this or hinted at it, but I feel like I should say something about the pace of the story before any of you _do_ start to voice impatience. One aspect of _Choosing Grey_ that I might change if I rewrote that story (I’m not, but _if_ I did) would be to develop their relationship further before plunging into the endgame of the political scheming and Tom’s triumphs through antiheroism (and Hermione’s transformation into an antihero too). It was a deliberate choice not to drag out that story with “filler” moments between Tom and Hermione, once it was established that they did have mutual attraction and some degree of trust. However, the origin of their relationship in _this_ story is coercion rather than individual choice, and I think that means I have to show more of how their friendship and attraction develop.
> 
>  Additionally, the political plots themselves in this story are going to drag out much longer than the ones in _Choosing Grey_ , so I think it makes for better storytelling to have a number of chapters that explicitly develop their relationship while the dirty medieval schemes are still cooking, rather than taking multi-year time jumps.

Despite her discussion with Tom, Hermione was still dissatisfied with the situation regarding the attacker. Neither she nor Tom knew who was behind it, and she did not like not knowing. She recalled her family’s first introduction to the ruthless blood politics of the magical aristocracy. Even though her family and Tom’s had found and exploited a loophole, it was pretty clear to her that the lords of the Wizards’ Council couldn’t possibly be pleased with this. _And, too, there’s the fact that I did not meekly accept Adelaide Lestrange’s shameful attack on me,_ she thought.

Hermione was aware that by standing up for her rights and dignity, she had made herself—and Tom—a target for the blood supremacists on the Wizards’ Council. They had significant power, whereas the Riddle-Granger alliance’s power consisted largely of a magical fortress. That would be useful as a shield of sorts; it severely limited the leverage that the Wizards’ Council had over Lady Merope to force her to do something she did not want to do. But it was almost all _defensive_ power. Hermione had not seen any indication that Lady Merope had a force of wizards to wage an offensive against magical forces. Her late brother, who Hermione had gleaned was a disgraceful excuse for a lord, had apparently driven away almost all of their vassal families. The castle at Hangleton was a safe fortress, but it could not help defend and protect Hermione—or Tom—when they were not behind its magically reinforced walls.

 _This is a school,_ she thought. _I have the right to be protected in my person while I study here. I should go to Master Slughorn or High Master Dumbledore with this. It’s not fostering, exactly, but our families have placed us in their care, and they are obligated to honor that trust and protect us from assassination while we are here._

Hermione knew by now that she could not trust in the honor of the likes of Lestranges and Malfoys, but she respected Slughorn—her Head of House—and the other professors. She had no reason to think that _they_ scorned these most basic rules that governed civil society.

 _I’ll tell Slughorn,_ she resolved.

There was another matter to decide, and that was whether to get Tom involved. _This was not actually an attack on him,_ she thought. _These people may not have liked him, but they acknowledged his right to be at Hogwarts. He studied here for a year before we met. This is about me. I was the person attacked, and none of this began until my family asserted my rights. Besides, wizards see witches very differently to how Muggle men see women. I need to assert myself as a witch. I can tell Tom afterward, but I need to do this myself._

* * *

Hermione cornered Slughorn after Potions that Monday, urging Harry, Daphne, and Millicent to wait outside the room for her.

“Lady Hermione,” the stout wizard said, “what can I do for you?”

Hermione’s gaze darted toward the door. It was closed. She took a deep breath and started to tell her story.

“At the last Hogsmeade visit, something happened,” she began. “Lord Thomas and I had explored the edge of the forest a little—the patch behind the Three Broomsticks—and we decided to cut through the alley to return to the main street of the town.”

Slughorn nodded.

“Well… in that alley, a witch jumped out and attacked me. Not Tom—Lord Thomas, that is—but _me._ She sent some spells at me, including one that started a fire when it missed me. I sent a Reductor Curse back at her, and it hit, sending her backward into the street… but her head was hooded, and no one saw who she was before she Disapparated.”

Slughorn was gazing at Hermione with wide eyes and shock written in his face. “What are you—that is to say, do you think it was a student?”

“I don’t know. If it was, she was an older student. But the fact of the matter is this, Professor—it’s important for all pupils to be kept safe at Hogwarts. Since I was attacked by someone unknown, and you are my Head of House, I thought that you might start an investigation into the matter.”

Slughorn paled slightly. “My dear young lady, I… you are right to say that… but I mean, it might be difficult if the perpetrator is, in fact….” He trailed off awkwardly, apparently unwilling to complete his thought in words.

Hermione thought she understood what he was going to say anyway. She gave him a hard gaze. “Professor, I understand the delicate political situation quite well. I realize that the lords of the Wizards’ Council do not approve of my attendance here, or quite probably my betrothal to the heir of an old wizarding family either—”

Slughorn blanched at this blunt description, but Hermione continued undeterred. “—but everything that our families have done is in accordance with the law, whereas unprovoked assassination attempts _are not.”_

“That is very true,” Slughorn muttered. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.

“I am not asking any Master of Hogwarts to take a side in a private disagreement,” she said, trying to sound more accommodating and reasonable. “But that is precisely why it’s so important to make inquiries about this. You would simply be investigating a threat to the safety of a student. Otherwise, whoever did it—or ordered it—will view Hogwarts’ inaction as taking _their_ side.”

Slughorn took a deep breath and wrung his hands anxiously. “You are quite right,” he said. “I cannot promise that I will uncover the responsible party, but I will let High Master Dumbledore know this happened, and I will certainly try to find out if anyone in Slytherin House knows anything about it.”

“I thank you,” Hermione said daintily.

He lowered his voice as he said to her, “If the inquiries do uncover who arranged for it, I can’t necessarily act on that information, you understand. If it should turn out to be someone high in the Wizards’ Council….”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, weighing whether or not to tell him something. He was clearly not a very courageous man, she thought. He was intimidated by the lords of the Council. But she thought his heart was nonetheless in the right place and that he could be trusted with the information, so she decided to give it to him. “Lord Thomas and I did ask Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange if they knew anything about it. They did not.”

His eyes widened even more.

“But it’s possible that someone among the older students might know, or even perhaps residents of Hogsmeade.”

Slughorn wiped his forehead. “I am… glad that you and Lord Thomas did that, then, because it would have been awkward for a Master of Hogwarts to do so. But you may have a point about others. I will see what I can find out.”

Hermione thanked him again and took her leave, feeling reasonably pleased with the conversation. _Now_ she could tell Tom… or, rather, as soon as she saw him that evening.

* * *

They located a small, unused room on the ground level of the castle. It was not ideal long-term—far too close to widely traveled areas—but it would do for now. After dinner, Tom listened with growing displeasure as Hermione narrated the discussion with Slughorn. Finally she finished speaking and gazed at him, her eyebrows raised.

He sighed in frustration and ran a hand over the top of his head. “Hermione,” he said, “I wish you had told me in advance.”

Her face fell. “You don’t approve?”

“It’s just that things that affect you affect me too. I should have been there.”

“It didn’t seem improper among wizards and witches,” she said.

“I don’t mean impropriety in terms of you speaking on behalf of yourself. I mean that… I was _there_ in Hogsmeade, Hermione. I defended you. We have this… arrangement….”

“That witch attacked _me,_ though,” she objected. “It was about me, and my presence here. You attended this school for a year without anything like this happening… at least that you ever told me about,” she added sullenly, giving him a suspicious look.

He sighed again. “I was never attacked by an adult who obviously meant to kill me, no.”

“There you have it, then. They—whoever on the Wizards’ Council ordered this—weren’t offended by _your_ presence here.” She paused, considering something else. “Do you think that Slughorn isn’t to be trusted?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think he is in league with the Council, if that’s what you mean. He just doesn’t seem like the type who would want to take any stand.”

“I got that impression myself. I think I convinced him that it was about the safety of a pupil who had been placed in his care, though.”

Tom scowled. “He probably won’t make a thorough investigation, though, for fear of stepping on the wrong toes and uncovering something that he really does not want to deal with. We may never know specifically who did that, or who ordered it… and when you think about it, it hardly matters. We know the lords of the Wizards’ Council and their families are adversaries. I’m sure they are responsible. What more do we need to know?”

“I’d like to know,” she muttered, “for justice.”

He chuckled darkly. “Good luck with that. There has been little justice in the wizarding community since Armand Malfoy stepped onto English soil. We used to have a deliberative body of wizarding lords and ladies—all the great families—but he dissolved that. My mother would have had a seat on it… and I might have too,” he grumbled, “if the Gaunt family had more than one. But now it’s just the Malfoys, the Lestranges, and their toadies the Blacks.”

They lapsed into silence. Hermione shot a quick glance at Tom while he wasn’t looking at her, hoping to determine if he really was offended at the fact that she had not told him in advance that she was going to talk to Slughorn. He did not seem to be angry with her.

“I don’t think I was wrong to tell Slughorn,” she offered, “but I will consult with you first from now on.”

He nodded silently. “We should know what is going on with each other.”

Another silence, this one comfortable, fell. Hermione thought about what she had heard. _The Malfoys… the Lestranges… and the Blacks._

“Does the Black family have anyone here at Hogwarts?” she asked.

He considered for a moment. “I see why you’re asking… but no, not anymore. Malfoy’s mother was a Black, but in terms of someone who bears the name… no. Of the present generation, there are only two sons. Sirius is the one who lives with Potter’s family. He was disinherited. He doesn’t have a wife or children… and his younger brother, the heir, Lord Regulus, does have a daughter, but she finished her education last year.”

“Is she married now?”

“I don’t know. I remember that she wanted an apprenticeship, but it was very shocking—that’s why I remember. That’s just not done for someone of her status.”

“Naturally not,” Hermione agreed. “What was she like? Do you think she could have been the assassin?”

Tom considered. “I really doubt it. She did not seem interested in her family’s politics. She had a bit of a goofy streak, actually.” A hint of scorn filled his words at that. “I doubt she was behind this… and as I said, it doesn’t really matter. We know who our enemies are. You just need to focus on staying safe.”

She nodded in agreement, smiling. They had had a disagreement—a minor one, yes, but still a disagreement—and had discussed it civilly, with no insults exchanged or tears shed. Indeed, they had come to a consensus from the talk. It made her feel very warm towards him.

Tom seemed to be thinking the same thing. He leaned in, reaching out to her, and cupped her cheek with one hand. Her eyes fluttered closed as he pulled her to him and brought his lips to hers. A soft exclamation of joy escaped her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew in, deepening the kiss rather more intensely than any they had shared so far.

When they separated, his eyes were wide with surprise at what had just transpired. She smiled crookedly at him. It was a bit hard for her to believe as well, but so it was.

“We should get back to the common room before we’re missed,” he said, the words seemingly fracturing the air into pieces—or breaking a spell. Hermione nodded her agreement, and they linked arms and headed down to the common room.

Once safely ensconced behind the password-protected doors of their bedchambers, Tom took out a sheet of parchment and began to compose a letter to his mother.

* * *

_Canis Manor on the Thames._

Lord Regulus Black, grandson of Lord Arcturus of the Wizards’ Council and heir of House Black, shook his head in disgust at the letter in his hands.

“Bad news, my lord?”

Regulus glanced in the direction of the sassy voice. His wife—and first cousin—Lady Andromeda was gazing wryly at him from her consort’s seat. She knew who tended to send owls that left Regulus disgruntled, and this was no exception.

“My brother is a fool,” Regulus stated without preamble.

“What has he done this time?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “His latest muddle-headed scheme is to raise Godric’s Hollow against Lord Lucius by romping about the outskirts on the full moon with that werewolf friend. Fortunately, he has not done it. Yet.”

At this moment, a figure with long white hair, a heavily lined face, and sinister black eyes entered the great hall. Regulus started, his face paling for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. He chuckled darkly.

“That’s uncanny, Dora, but you’d best be careful who you let see that impression. I doubt the high lord would take well to mockery, however good.”

A smile appeared on the decrepit face. The person’s features transformed, filling out and tightening up into youth and health. The hair changed color and shortened.

Nymphadora Black smirked. “Lord Malfoy takes himself far too seriously.”

“Few would agree with that,” Andromeda spoke up. “It is amusing here, while we are alone, but you should not stroll about like that.”

“Very well. What was this about Uncle Sirius and a werewolf?” Dora asked, changing the subject.

Regulus shook his head. “His latest fool idea to incite an uprising in that town. It appears that he thinks Potter will forbid it. I don’t know why he bothers to write to me with such stuff… he can’t think I would offer my sanction to such an act, especially one that has such a high risk of getting him and this friend of his killed.” He scanned the letter again. “Oh, and there is a bit, apparently passed on from Potter’s son, about an assassination attempt on that girl that Grandfather allowed to come to Hogwarts.”

Andromeda gave Regulus a pointed look, followed by a quick glance at Dora. “We will discuss this later.”

A knock sounded on the tall double doors, echoing down the hall. Dora rose to admit the visitor, a portly wizard bearing a ledger—and a silver tray with three goblets. He bowed to Regulus. “The monthly _accounts,_ my lord,” the castle steward said, emphasizing the word pointedly.

Regulus accepted the document and the goblet. “Thank you, Tonks. This contains the information from…?”

Ted Tonks nodded. “It does, my lord.”

“And the translation?”

“Yes, my lord. I know how tiresome it can be to read the original.” He bowed and presented the remaining goblets to Lady Andromeda and Lady Dora, his gaze softening and lingering on them for a moment, especially the latter. Lady Andromeda’s sharp, clever face softened for a moment as well, but instantly returned to its prior expression of finely honed irony. Tonks bowed, took his leave, and left his lord and ladies to their privacy.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

At the same time that Lord Regulus Black was reading a letter from his disgraced brother, Merope Riddle had a letter of her own from her son.

 

_My lady mother,_

_I am sorry to tell you that things have not gone entirely smoothly since our return to Hogwarts. This is not because of a problem between Lady Hermione and me, but rather, external events set up by people who want to harm her._

_This sounds very dramatic, I know, but it is nothing less than the truth. During a visit to the village of Hogsmeade, a female magical attacker ambushed us in an alley and used extremely violent curses against Lady Hermione. Fortunately she defended herself against the would-be assassin—and I have no doubt that assassination was the goal, given the sort of spells this witch used—but whoever it was Disapparated before we could identify her or even see her face. She wore a large and heavy hood, and the entire nature of the attack indicates that it was planned well in advance rather than the raving of a madwoman or a drunk. I need not put into writing, I assume, who the obvious culprits would be._

_Lady Hermione has informed Master Slughorn of the attack and has a promise from him to make inquiries among the students to determine if they know anything. I think this is an exercise in futility, myself. We know who is likely behind it, and I have urged stronger protective measures to her. To be frank with you, Mother, I urged her to consider marrying me early, by which I mean this summer, so that she could finish her education safely inside the walls of Parselhall. She was resolutely opposed to the idea of leaving Hogwarts early. She wants to finish her education here before marrying. I am not telling you this because I want you to force it upon her, but I’m still convinced that it is a good idea. But I would be interested to know if you have any other ideas of how to protect her. We are surrounded by enemies who are very powerful, and they have targeted her. I mean to develop friendships with some of the less toadying young nobles of Slytherin House, now that these at least respect me as one of them, but I think it’s for the best that you should know about everything that is going on._

 

Merope glanced at Severus, who was standing by, affording her the privacy to read her own letter. He raised his eyebrows at her.

She rolled up the parchment and sighed. “My son is quite a schemer.”

Severus waited for her to elaborate on that.

“He tells me that Lady Hermione was attacked in Hogsmeade and proposes several suggestions about how to address it.”

“She was attacked?” Severus said, startled out of his usual coolly observant demeanor. “I had no idea that something like that was coming….”

“No one blames you. Your sources cannot know about everything.”

Severus nodded. “What does he suggest? If you wish to tell me?”

“The main suggestion is that he and Lady Hermione could marry this summer instead of in three or four years.”

Severus considered. “What are your thoughts about that?”

“It might not be the worst idea… but he said that she was against it, because she wanted to complete her education at Hogwarts first.”

“What does your son suggest to protect himself?”

Merope scanned the letter again, frowning as she read. “He is concerned with her. He doesn’t seem overly worried about himself.”

Severus’s dark eyes narrowed. “I am glad that he is so concerned about her,” he said tightly.

“As am I, for obvious reasons.”

Severus nodded. “But I think he gravely underestimates the danger to himself. He probably thinks that he won’t be targeted because he was not targeted last year, but last year, he was a half-blood commoner. But although he is a half-blood, he is now a young lord, and he is a key party to a contract that the members of the Wizards’ Council loathe because they see it, rightly, as an act of defiance against their values.”

Merope nodded. “I have no intention of pressuring Lady Hermione to give up her education at Hogwarts. I _am_ pleased that Tom cares so much about her, but you’re right. I am not going to _tell_ him this, but I know very well that this family’s dealings with the Wizards’ Council are likely not over. I have not forgotten what you told me last year about the plot to pressure _me_ to marry someone else. Sadly for them, they cannot storm this castle.”

Severus hesitated. “And have you discovered the status of your marriage with Riddle?”

She sighed. “I have not had the time to look into the matter. I would be surprised, at this point, if he had not been granted a divorce for ‘abandonment,’ even though he was the one who abandoned me, but I can’t be sure. I’ve still been setting this holding in order and trying to create loyalty among the village folk.”

“And you’ve done very well with that.”

It was true. In sharp contrast with Marvolo and Morfin, Merope had treated her Muggle subjects in Hangleton Village well, abolishing the practice of serfdom in her own fief and allowing them to practice trades if they showed talent at something. She also had brought in a Muggle arms instructor to identify and train the most promising in skill at arms. There was simply no reason to waste the skills of talented Muggles in field labor. The error that the previous Gaunts had made was to assume that Muggles could have no skills, that they were merely good for physical labor.

These changes did reduce the number of field hands to work the farms, but the village itself was more resilient—and the peasants were loyal to their liege out of gratitude and respect rather than resentful terror. Merope and Severus had used spells to preserve the crops for longer, since it would take longer for them to be tended and harvested.

All in all, the fief of Hangleton was much stronger than it had been before Merope assumed the high seat—and she was not blind to that fact. Seeing the account books, and personally witnessing the changes with her own eyes, had instilled a growing confidence in her.

It was a confidence that she realized she would need to take on the increasingly fraught political situation.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom read the reply letter from his mother, unsure what to think of it. She expressed her deep approval for his concern and affection for Hermione, but urged him not to become so assured that _he_ would be protected from attacks due to having a wizarding parent. In Tom’s opinion, it came across as a subtle scolding for putting himself above Hermione due to blood status.

 _How could Mother think that,_ he fumed, _especially since she knows what I suggested?_

That was the other thing. She had told him, rather sharply, that he had _“better not expect me to back you in depriving Hermione of her Hogwarts education if she herself does not wish this”_ —and that he should not try to make plans for Hermione behind her back.

 _Mother, you can be such a hypocrite at times,_ Tom thought grouchily. She had certainly made the biggest plan of all for Tom behind _his_ back, only informing him of it after it was settled. He had not thought about it from this point of view in a while, since he had come to like Hermione, but Mother could be so high-handed sometimes with her secret plans and schemes. That was all very well—Tom respected clever schemes—but she ought to tell _him,_ especially when they concerned him. Even her scheme of surprising him with Hermione’s presence the first evening of his winter visit was something she had done behind his back. She really did like her secrets; she wasn’t yet allowing him to read most of the books about his own ancestors either. It made him wonder just what else she might be withholding from him.

And besides, Hermione had gone to Professor Slughorn in secret and apparently convinced the professor to question their classmates about the attack.

Hermione herself then entered the small room—the same one on the ground floor where they had discussed her conversation with Slughorn—and noticed how irritated he was currently looking.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, taking a seat beside him.

He put the letter aside and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Letter from Mother.”

She leaned across him to try to catch a glimpse.

“There’s no need for that,” he chuckled, passing it to her.

Hermione laughed in return and began to read. When she finished, she set it down and looked at him.

“She’s right,” she said in a low voice. “You _are_ in danger from these people too.”

He sighed. “That’s probably so, but I think I can take care of myself.”

“So can I!” Hermione exclaimed. “You’ve said yourself that I am magically powerful, and not to boast, but I can see it for myself now that I am here and can compare myself to others.”

“Good,” he said. “You shouldn’t be modest about that.”

“But Tom… the point of this is that you don’t need to—to lock me up in your mother’s castle to protect me! She’s right about _that_ too.”

“You _would_ be safer there,” he challenged.

She scowled at him. “Perhaps, but at what price?”

“You have seen the library there, many times—”

“I don’t just mean my education, Tom! Are you prepared to… I mean… if we _really_ got married, I might get with child!”

Tom flushed deep red.

“And that would be a _real_ problem for finishing my magical education, wouldn’t it?” she continued ruthlessly, though she was also pink. “Right now I only have to be careful for myself, and I have read about how resilient the bodies of witches and wizards are after about age eleven or twelve. But I have _also_ read about what curses and potions can do to unborn babies, and in any case, I don’t even want that yet! I have heard of it happening to other girls, who were married very early, and it’s just sad to me. I don’t want to think about that yet.”

“We could just have a ceremony and avoid—”

“No, Tom. It is not happening. Your mother is not going to force it, and my own parents specifically wanted me to receive a magical education. I am happy that you want so much to keep me safe—I really am—but you need to let go of this idea. We can find other ways. As your mother wrote, you are in danger too, whether you accept that or not.”

He sighed, glowering at his lap, not looking at her. She was right, and he knew it, but he really did just want to protect her with whatever means he had at his disposal.

She nudged closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “You should start cultivating the people in our House that you think would be potential allies. For my part, I would have Harry, Neville, and maybe that girl Luna. She’s a bit odd, and I have trouble talking with her seriously, but we do need more friends.”

Tom was silent for a few more moments before speaking. “You’re right,” he said. “I have talked about that, but it’s time for me to do it. My only concern is that it may look like we’re raising an army. The Wizards’ Council may take it as a threat. But,” he continued, “if we _don’t_ show visible strength, people like that will just bully and push over and over again.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “Yes, they will.”

Tom pulled Hermione into his lap. As she shifted in his arms, she turned to face him, draping her arms around his neck. They exchanged a kiss, an innocent one with lips closed at first, but before long, their affections deepened once again.

After several minutes, they separated, but they stayed with their foreheads resting against each other. The thought momentarily passed through Hermione’s head that if their relationship continued to advance at a rapid pace, they would soon have to be very careful of themselves. But for now, it was pleasant and sweet, and their private moments of affection served only to bring them closer. In the present uncertain environment, that was a very good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indeed implying exactly what you think I am with Regulus’s household. What can I say? I did warn that this story was going to be dark… but perhaps I should have said that the Malfoys, Lestranges, and Tom Riddle are not the only sources of darkness and grimness in this kind of setting.


	13. Alliances Open and Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Here is a new chapter, continuing the gradual trickle of information about Godric’s Hollow. Actually, this is more like a flood than a trickle, and I am not sure how it’ll go over (and there’s a really cheesy reference tossed in, which I couldn’t resist, and I am sorry)—so do let me know. They _finally_ stop talking about acquiring allies and start to do it, as well… and on that note, please keep in mind that the section where Tom does this is written from his viewpoint, which means that his thoughts are rather venomously ethnocentric.
> 
> And last but not least, I estimate that the story will earn one of its archive warnings (and you can guess which one) in a chapter or two. As I said, I will write that tastefully, given how young they are, but it’s pretty clearly approaching.

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Lord Severus Snape now had a manor of his own within the confines of his liege’s holding. It was the old Prince manor, the one that had belonged to his wizarding family, but it had now been restored to a livable condition. Merope was keeping him on as steward of her property—chancellor, she was now calling the post, as that sounded a bit more impressive—but he could choose to live in the manor rather than her castle now.

He had mixed feelings about that when the magical renovation was complete and she had informed him of it with a smile on her face. He had been under the impression that there was something between them… but then, he supposed, perhaps that was exactly why he _should_ move into his own home. If he could live there but chose to live in _her_ home instead, it sent a clear message—and that was not a message that she seemed comfortable with at this point.

To tell the truth, he was not entirely comfortable with it either. If they married, it would come with significant complications. His lady could not marry him—or any wizard—unless she purposely avoided having additional children, since she was so dedicated to ensuring her son’s prosperity.

Severus could not blame her for putting her child’s interests ahead of her own emotional comfort, but he didn’t like the fact that Armand Malfoy and his circle had even instituted such a law. It was almost _Muggle_ in nature, he thought, which was grotesquely ironic for the blood-obsessed Wizards’ Council. Wizarding law in Britain and Ireland, set by the now-dissolved Wizengamot, had not mandated primogeniture or male preference. Families could choose any child as the heir, or even a cousin, if all the children were unsatisfactory. Sometimes an eldest child wanted to pursue scholarship instead of ruling a holding. Sometimes the child best suited to managing property was female. Granted, the Wizards’ Council had not changed _those_ inheritance laws, but taking that power away from individual families and ranking children by a prescribed formula, according to factors that were accidents of birth, was a very Muggle legal conceit, in Severus’s opinion. Forcibly ranking their legal rights by “purity of blood” felt very much to Severus like the first slide on that slippery slope, if something did not happen to rein in the Malfoy-Lestrange-Black hegemony.

 _The thwarted rebellion in Godric’s Hollow attempted to do that,_ he thought, with a twinge of sadness. In his narrative of the history of Godric’s Hollow to the young people over Christmas, he had purposely omitted a key event. Armand Malfoy’s use of temporary stewards and regents had not ended with his placement of Abraxas in the seat. Fifteen years ago, Armand had summoned Abraxas away from Godric’s Hollow to Malfoy Manor, and fourteen years ago, several of the wizards and witches in that village had attempted—in disguise—to stage a rebellion against Raymond Crabbe, who was acting as regent for _Lucius_ Malfoy for a year. The villagers had seized the opportunity that a weak lord outside the family afforded.

Severus had been part of that—and _that_ was the detail he wanted hidden. His own mother had not known that he had Apparated to the site of rebellion, eager to do _something_ to avenge the humiliation of his family at the hands of blood supremacists. Marvolo Gaunt had been a loathsome lord who, although isolating himself from regular communication with his peers (and eschewing marriage alliances with most other families, much to Severus’s horror—and Merope’s), definitely agreed with the views of the Malfoy family. Although Severus was unable at the time to do anything about the Gaunts, he felt that he _could_ do something about the system that had enabled their conduct. Young and angry, he had sneaked out and gone to the town that he’d heard about from his fellow young Gaunt vassal, Peter Pettigrew, who was friends with some of the young wizards of that town. He hadn’t even confided his plans to that fellow, though. No one knew it was he behind that charmed mask—no one except for _her._ Meeting such a talented Muggle-born witch who had never been allowed to go to Hogwarts—again, due to the Malfoys—had hardened his resolve.

The small group of masked witches and wizards had stormed the castle, the one that had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, bearing magically lit torches and sending destructive spells over the ramparts. But the flare-up of revolt was put down as quickly as it had arisen, when the lord who emerged from the castle was revealed not to be Crabbe, but Lucius Malfoy himself—the grandson of the usurper. No one could ever figure out how the Malfoy elders had learned of the plans in advance, whether there was treachery in the rebels’ ranks or someone had just been loose-lipped (which was possible, given how Severus had learned of the plans in the first place despite being nowhere near Godric’s Hollow), but there Lord Lucius was. He had killed two of the leaders, the Prewett brothers, and the rest of the rebels had scattered, their identities concealed by masks.

The aftermath had been a shame and a disgrace upon many of the rebels’ honor, he had heard, with people who had been involved in it telling the new lord that their hated neighbors or family rivals had been there instead. Short of questioning every magical person in the town under Veritaserum, there was no way to determine exactly who had been part of it. In the end, Lord Lucius had dispatched his favorite torturer, a squat witch named Umbridge, to make public examples of one or two, with the rest forced to watch. She apparently knew a curse that peeled a person’s skin away inside out starting with an open wound, and no villager had dared to foment rebellion again after that horrific sight.

To this day, Severus wondered about Lily’s son, Harold. He had black hair just like Severus, and the timing was uncertain….

He pushed that thought out of his head. It was just as likely that the boy really was the son of James Potter. He had been engaged to Lily until a couple of weeks before the rebellion, when they’d had an ugly fight. Severus was reasonably certain that they had already consummated their engagement, too. They were back together and married the month after the uprising, after he had returned morosely to Hangleton. Potter also had black hair, and besides, the husband of a married woman was legally the father of her children unless it could be proved otherwise. In any case, all he had heard indicated that she was happy, and Snape’s own heart had at last turned in a different direction over the past year….

His thoughts returned to the present, and his gaze shifted to the letter he had dug out of his desk to re-examine. He did not particularly like Merope’s son, or his betrothed—an arrogant, know-it-all pair if ever there were—but they were still young, and Severus reflected that _he_ had certainly been an arrogant youth. They would learn the hard way, he supposed, that they did not know everything and were not invulnerable. That would be painful for them, but it would do them both good. It was his job to protect them from _real_ harm, and he had just remembered a piece of information that might aid in that goal. He left his manor house and Apparated the relatively short distance to Castle Parselhall.

Lady Merope was pleased to see him, but the pleasure on her face melted away quickly at the sight of his grim one.

“My lady,” he began without prelude, “I have reread one of my communications from….” He gazed pointedly at her.

She nodded.

“It was the report from last fall of the meeting at Castle l’Etrange. I had forgotten the fact that Lady Bellatrix Lestrange was very adamant about wanting to kill the young people, even though no one except the high lord himself seemed to support her.”

Merope considered this. “Do you think that the assassin in Hogsmeade who tried to kill Lady Hermione was Lady Lestrange? They did think it was a witch….”

“She’s the most likely possibility, since the men in that room who spoke up didn’t want to use violence,” Severus affirmed. “My source tells me, and this is actually fairly common knowledge among the magical nobility, that she is… I am not sure if ‘reckless’ is the correct word, exactly… but she has been known to act alone if she is very determined on something.”

Merope nodded again, thoughtfully. “And she might act alone without even telling her daughter. Tom tells me that the young lady is not subtle, so she probably couldn’t be trusted with such knowledge. If the would-be assassin _was_ Lady Lestrange, I wonder if the high lord knew about this….”

Severus sighed. “So do I. _He_ is one who can definitely keep secrets.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom’s growing affection for Hermione coincided with a deep, visceral, and empathetic—rather than purely self-centered—determination to keep her safe from the machinations of their enemies.

 _I still wish that she would consider marrying me early,_ he thought. Even if they didn’t consummate the marriage that soon—and Tom still found that idea intimidating—people would think that they had, and therefore that she might have conceived… _but do they verify that?_ he wondered. He genuinely did not know if his mother would test that with a charm after they did marry. Sometimes people were actually married—on paper—in _childhood,_ and such marriages might not be consummated for several years… but he and Hermione were considered just old enough. They might be expected to. _In fact,_ Tom thought, a swooping feeling developing in his gut, _if we told Mother that we weren’t going to for a while yet, she might insist that Hermione continue to go to Hogwarts despite being married. The only way to ensure that she would get to stay at Parselhall would be to actually do the deed—and then she very well might get with child, just as she said to me._ Tom definitely was not prepared for _that_ to happen.

Well, Hermione was resolved against it anyway. This was nothing more than speculation on a theory. Tom knew it was far better to consider what he _could_ do rather than pining for something that wouldn’t happen.

He took out a sheet of paper and began to make a list of names. With the exception of Potter, everyone in Slytherin was the child of a lord, a knight, or an untitled sibling to one. Most of the wizards, unfortunately, were from families that had not just sworn fealty to Armand Malfoy—after all, his own mother had too—but who actually agreed with the Wizards’ Council’s policies of absolute Norman hegemony. Either they were predominantly of occupier heritage themselves, or they had no pride. The Crabbe family, for example, acted as though it really wanted to supplant the Black family as bootlicking English toadies to the invader lords. Tom did not write down any of the names of these families’ children. They were likely hopeless.

Still, they were not the only wizards in Slytherin House. Tom had observed people carefully over the approximately year and a half he had been at Hogwarts, and he had detected the subtleties in the conversations of some of them that indicated they saw things a bit differently. Flint, Fawley, Nott, Avery, and Wilkes were the names in this group. Their families had all held seats on the old Wizengamot for many years before the Conquest—in the case of Fawley, almost as long as his own family had been there—and now they were virtually powerless.

Reluctantly Tom wrote down the names of Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode too, though he did not intend to “recruit” young ladies directly. He was not sure what to do about them. They were friendly enough with Hermione, but it was obvious to Tom that they still had not truly admitted her as one of themselves. It would be presumptuous for Hermione to try to ally with them in any acknowledged sense, given that. Perhaps she should just continue associating with them as she was. Familiarity might encourage them to overlook her blood status… _unless the problem is her part-Norman background,_ Tom thought. He winced. That might be an issue for his plans, as well. He did not need charges of hypocrisy levelled at him.

 _When I cultivate these boys, I won’t mention it unless one of them does,_ he thought. _And if it comes up, I’ll just say that half of her antecedents are English, and the intermarriages were political ploys to recover or keep their property. Then, too, some of the boys may have a part-Norman relative or two themselves by now. Not everyone will be like me, entirely Celtic and Anglo-Saxon._

A thought nagged at him, but Tom shoved the idea right out of his head that his eventual children with Hermione would not be, either.

* * *

Despite the occasional threats to her life, Hermione was enjoying life at Hogwarts very much now. By spring, the bullying from her housemates now consisted only of the occasional verbal snipe, and she had friends to counter it—as well as a relationship with Tom that was making her very happy.

She and Tom had rather frequent private moments here and there in the castle, or in the copse of trees behind Hogsmeade, and as the moments accumulated, the degree of intimacy increased too. Gone were the days in which they only touched in the course of linking arms to attend meals together, or Tom perfunctorily kissing her knuckles to see her off to bed. Now, they embraced and kissed at almost every private opportunity. If they needed to discuss something private that would take a while to resolve, she often leaned against him, with one of his arms securely around her waist. Occasionally she would even sit in his lap, though that often led to their becoming too distracted to actually hold their discussion.

Tom was not faking any of this. He didn’t need to; their betrothal existed whether they even saw each other or not, let alone engaged in affections. He _wanted_ to. His attitude toward her had changed dramatically in the months since they had first met—and with this new reference for comparison, Hermione was now able to see that she had been naïvely innocent about how he saw her in those early days. It had been a fancy on her side and the very beginning of a friendship for both of them, and she realized that, now that she had personal awareness of what an affectionate relationship could be. Then, too, his idea about early marriage was further evidence that his views of her had changed dramatically. It was not a _good_ idea, in her opinion, but Tom would not have suggested it nine months ago. He must have not just “accepted” the idea, but _warmed_ to it. His affectionate, if possessive, behavior to her supported that contention.

Hermione wondered if her parents had had an affectionate engagement like this. She had never seen them showing anything but respect and kindness to each other, but then, they had been married for many years by the time she was even born. She had _not_ observed them showing the kinds of affections to each other that she and Tom were now engaged in… but perhaps they did in private. She hoped so. Hermione had been so sure that she understood what marriage was, but the months since Christmas had altered her views somewhat. _Were_ most noble couples affectionate, or did they do only what they were obliged to do—those public social courtesies, the kinds of things Tom had done so coolly at the beginning, as well as the occasional “marital duty”? She did not know. _Maybe,_ she thought, _it’s best for people to be introduced to each other as early as possible, so they have plenty of time to get to know each other…._ The image of Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange then intruded upon her thoughts, shattering that nice and neat idea. They were the same ages as she and Tom, and it didn’t appear likely that they would _ever_ become a loving couple.

Hermione didn’t want to think that this was simply good fortune, but perhaps it was. That was an uncomfortable thought. Now that she knew what she could have, the idea of not having it was unpleasant.

 _I will have it, at least,_ she reassured herself. _Tom and I are going to be very happy. I can’t be responsible for everyone else’s happiness in life, and there are many considerations that people must think about in addition to their own happiness._

She thought about her new friends. Now that she was secure of Tom’s affections for her, she felt freed to develop her other friendships without worrying about whether Tom’s dark suggestion that day last year— _“What if you meet a boy at Hogwarts that you like better than me?”_ —would come true despite her best intentions. Harry and his Gryffindor friend Neville were nice boys, and she could now enjoy their moments of friendship without worry or guilt. Luna, too, was nice, if rather odd. Her favorite area of magic was astrology, which was the one for which Hermione just could not get past some innate skepticism. Spells, potions, and magical flora and fauna were one thing. She could immediately see that they were real and powerful. The supposed effects of planetary, stellar, and lunar alignment were a different matter altogether, and Hermione just could not see that these phenomena—if they existed—were either quantifiable, or, especially, _controllable._ Luna, however, spoke of the positioning of Mars and its effects on someone as if it were a matter of indisputable fact.

It rather reminded Hermione of the Divination instructor, whom she definitely did not like or respect. She was just waiting to catch that woman in an act of fraud.

On the other hand, Luna was also interested in magical plants and animals, which was something she shared with Harry’s friend Neville. Hermione wondered if they would become a couple. Harry, also, seemed to have his eye on the blonde witch, and interestingly, she seemed to take more to his gestures of friendship than Neville’s awkward mentions of his favorite subject. _Then again,_ Hermione reminded herself, _Tom and I shared interests, but we also had to become friends in addition to that before things really changed between us._ Hermione hoped the boys’ friendship didn’t become strained in the future, and she was just glad she was on the outside looking in.

Harry had, at last, opened up about something that he had not wanted to talk about before: his hometown of Godric’s Hollow. One day in Potions, he brought the subject up seemingly apropos of nothing.

“My godfather mentioned the oddest thing to me in his latest owl post,” he said, keeping his voice low so that their schoolmates could not hear what he was saying.

“Your godfather Sirius Black?”

Harry nodded, stirring the contents of his cauldron. “He told me that he had heard from someone he had known from Hogwarts, someone named Snape. Isn’t that Lady Riddle’s chief vassal?”

Hermione frowned. “Unless there is someone else with the same name, then yes. What reason did he give for the contact?”

“He said that Snape was asking him if he had heard anything about an old friend of his named Pettigrew, who was also supposed to be sworn to Lady Riddle but has been missing for years.”

Hermione set down her stirring rod and gave Harry a querying look. “Was your godfather supposed to pass this on?” she asked suspiciously. “It sounds sensitive to me.”

Harry colored faintly. “He may not have been,” he admitted, “but I passed it on to you, so you can inform them. But please… I don’t want anything to happen to Sirius, if you do. I don’t think he would have told anyone but my parents and me.”

She nodded. She was almost positive she had heard that name before…. _Yes,_ she realized, _it was over Christmas, at the breakfast table._ She resolved to let Tom know that evening.

* * *

Tom frowned thoughtfully after Hermione had explained to him what Harry had told her. At Harry’s own request, he was standing by listening in case Tom had any questions about the matter that Hermione might not be able to answer.

It turned out that he did. He turned to Harry and asked, rather aggressively, “When my mother last mentioned this to Snape, he thought that Pettigrew was dead. Why does he suddenly think differently?”

Hermione marveled at Tom’s memory. Now that she was reminded of it, she recalled that Snape had mentioned that someone else had indeed believed that.

Harry was taken aback. “I have no idea,” he said coldly. “My godfather did not share that bit with me. For all I know, Snape still does think that, but he’s just checking all sources.”

“Do _you_ know anything about Pettigrew?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing except that he, my godfather, and my father had been friends at Hogwarts—and there was apparently a fourth fellow too, but Sirius doesn’t want to talk about him.”

Tom locked eyes momentarily with Harry. Hermione realized what he was doing, and she rather disapproved of his doing it to friends. He broke his gaze with Harry, his handsome face twisting into a glare. “Is there something you’re not telling us, Potter?” he asked, even more aggressively.

Harry’s green eyes widened. “What are you doing, Riddle?” he exclaimed. “Did you just make me think of—”

Tom stared hard at Harry, who wilted.

“They’re Animagi,” he mumbled. “Sirius and my father.”

“And Pettigrew?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never met him. Father and Sirius mentioned him occasionally, but I didn’t even know that he was sworn to your mother. They always acted as if he wasn’t very good at magic. They said he lost a finger in an explosion once, for which they nicknamed him ‘Peter Little-finger,’ but he probably isn’t able to control his magic well enough if that’s true.”

“What about the story of his death? Do you know anything about that?”

Harry shook his head. “I thought he just disappeared.” He glared at Tom. “Riddle, I am not your enemy. I passed on useful information to her because it concerns your family.”

Tom sighed. His posture relaxed. “I don’t mean to make you feel like an enemy… but forgive me if I don’t particularly trust someone who is supposed to be loyal to my mother but, if he is alive, is avoiding his obligations. And if your family knows about it—”

“They don’t, though.”

Hermione spoke up, eager to make peace between her friend and her fiancé. “We don’t even know why he disappeared, if he is alive. It was certainly before your mother became a baroness, Tom, so he may have thought the family was gone. He may not know even now that she rules at Hangleton, if he is alive. Let’s not judge without knowing all the facts.”

Tom sighed again, but he nodded. Stiffly he turned to Harry. “Thank you for telling me.”

* * *

One day in the middle of spring, Hermione noticed that Tom was talking guardedly with a small group of Slytherin boys in the common room as she entered from the girls’ bedchambers, her reading for the night complete. Her eyebrows knit together. Were these the “allies” that he had repeatedly said he would try to cultivate? She quickly scanned them. Fawley, Flint, Nott… she did not know much about any of them, except that they did not seem to be part of Draco Malfoy’s personal coterie, which usually consisted of Crabbe, Goyle, and William Rosier.

Tom acknowledged Hermione’s entrance into the common room with a nod and a faint smile. The other boys followed his gaze, saw that she was there, and dispersed, leaving Tom to talk to her.

She approached him and raised her eyebrows at him queryingly, not needing to say a word.

“It is what you think,” he said quietly. He gazed around the common room, but the only person of Malfoy’s acquaintance who was there was Adelaide Lestrange, who sat sullenly next to a window, hunched over a nondescript flask.

“I’m glad,” Hermione said in a low voice. “What have you discussed so far?”

He ushered her into a private, dark corner and took a small scroll of parchment out of his belt pouch. He unrolled it and spread it out. “Pretty soon we’re going to have a secret symbol. This is a draft design.”

Hermione examined the sketch. Celtic knotwork surrounded an Ouroboros, which itself encircled a raven with a small crown on its head.

“The meaning of the decoration and the serpent is clear, but why the crowned raven?”

“Morgana le Fay was a raven Animagus.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She raised her eyebrows at him again. “Tom, what _exactly_ are you discussing with these boys?”

He hesitated. “Just solidarity against the Malfoys. These are boys whose families, like ours—”

Hermione did not miss that, and her heart skipped a beat at it.

“—are against the unjust and lawless behavior of people on the Wizards’ Council and their family members.”

“Well,” she said, considering, “just be careful. I don’t want Draco to find out that any of your allies—or, especially, you—are doing this.”

“That’s why the symbol will be secret,” he said with a smirk.

She gazed at the design again. “Tom, I really think you should take the crown off it. Morgana was not a queen, and it looks very presumptuous. If anyone in Malfoy’s circle _did_ see that, they would interpret it as a direct challenge. It might even be seen as a challenge for the _Muggle_ throne, and with their ongoing conflict, that could be dangerous for you.”

Tom scowled, but he did not voice disagreement. “All right,” he muttered. “You do have a point with that.” He rolled the scroll up and put it back in his pouch.

Hermione gave him a quick, knowing, private smile. “The alcove on the first floor?” she said softly.

He smirked back at her. “If you like.”

With as much dignity as they could muster—which was actually quite a bit—they linked arms and exited the common room.

They hurried up the flights of stairs and through the mostly empty corridors, finally darting into the familiar little spot. Although they had more than one place now for private moments, this was the first, and they still visited it. Flickers of orange and pink light from the setting sun filtered through diamond-paned windows. Tom embraced her, drawing her close, as they fell into a comfortable cushioned chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed him to plant kisses across her face.

“This is quite a change from last summer,” she observed playfully in a lull.

He gazed at her with dark eyes. “Did _you_ imagine this either at that time, Hermione?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I imagined us holding hands and exchanging smiles. I thought about a ring like this one”—she offered her hand for him to kiss—“and of us standing side by side in your mother’s castle. Something changed in me over the course of this year. I mean… what I imagined, when I thought about love, changed.” She blushed. “Of course, there’s apparently a lot more still….”

“We’ll have plenty of time.”

“We certainly will.”

“I’m looking forward to the summer,” he confessed. “I generally like winter… I’m not fond of heat… but now, my serpent familiar will be there, waiting for me… and it will be warm enough to take her out of the castle onto the grounds.”

“Maybe you can bring her to Hogwarts in the fall. It was just too cold to risk the journey after Christmas.”

“That’s definitely going to happen. You should get a familiar too, you know,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“It will have to be the right one.”

“Naturally.”

She thought about it. “I’ll know, just like you knew.” She cupped the side of his face with her hand and leaned in once more as they resumed their affections.

When the sky was dark and twinkling, and they finally realized that they had better return to the common room, Tom rose from the chair, feeling pleased and contented. Hermione linked arms with him again, a smile on her face.


	14. A Confluence of News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more! Another semi-transitional chapter, I'm afraid, although this one is actually pretty foreboding in certain ways. But things are going to happen pretty soon now.

Hermione unrolled the small scroll once again to look at it, although she knew what it said.

 

_To Lady Hermione Granger,_

_Master Slughorn and I request your presence at a private meeting in my office this evening to discuss the findings of our investigation. You may also bring Lord Thomas with you. The door to my office has a password, which is “flaming marchpane.”_

_High Master Albus Dumbledore_

 

Tom gave the small piece of paper a cursory glance. “It really does seem as though they have something to tell us,” he said, surprise in his words. “I wouldn’t have thought it.”

“Slughorn probably wouldn’t have anything to tell us if he had conducted the investigation all by himself,” Hermione said cynically. “This must be because he involved High Master Dumbledore.”

Tom scowled—Hermione had noticed that he did not seem to like Dumbledore all that well—but he did not dispute her point.

“What exactly is ‘flaming marchpane’?” Hermione asked him.

Tom smirked. “Exactly what it sounds like. Wizarding bakers use a charm to set it on fire—for a short time, anyway—but because it’s a magical fire, the candy won’t burn up. Sometimes they sculpt the marchpane into dragons and charm the fire to come out of the dragon’s mouth. It’s entertaining for children.”

“You jest.”

“Not at all.”

He did seem completely sincere, and this was certainly not the weirdest thing that Hermione had learned about since she came to Hogwarts, so she rolled up the scroll, placed it in her pouch, and leaned into him. He relaxed and hugged her.

In a little bit, they separated and rose to go to Dumbledore’s office. On the third floor, they heard footsteps approaching. Tom instinctively moved in front of Hermione, simultaneously pleasing and affronting her. It was gentlemanly of him, but she _could_ defend herself if this turned out be a threat….

Adelaide Lestrange came into view. At the sight of the couple before her, her features twisted into a sneer. “Granger,” she said. “I see you hiding behind Riddle.”

Hermione stepped forward and glared back at her foe. “I’m doing nothing of the sort. Go about your business, Lestrange.”

“I just wanted to say, I’m very surprised. Your first year at Hogwarts is over tomorrow, and you actually survived it,” the girl spat.

In a flash, Tom drew his wand. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he growled.

The girl glared. “It’s just surprising that a Mudblood could see it through,” she said peevishly. She met Tom’s eyes without fear. “And how very _sweet_ it is, Riddle, that you’re so protective of her. I suppose it makes sense, though. She’s the only real chance you have of continuing your own tarnished line.”

Tom sneered in disgust. “Your insults are boring. Find a new line of attack—or better yet, do as Hermione told you, and go about your own business.” He took a step forward, pointing the tip of his wand at Lestrange’s neck threateningly.

She gave them a final sneer before turning away. Tom was ready to stride forward, but Hermione watched her leave and did not turn around until Lestrange’s footsteps were no longer audible. They continued their trek to Dumbledore’s office.

“Flaming marchpane,” Hermione muttered when they reached his door. It swung open, revealing the wizened, bearded visage of Albus Dumbledore and a nervous-looking Horace Slughorn.

Tom closed the door behind them, pulled a chair for Hermione, and took his own seat in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Slughorn sat down but continued to fidget.

Dumbledore examined Tom with serious eyes, then turned to Hermione, studying her as well. It made her feel awkward, and she wondered if Dumbledore might be a Legilimens just as Tom was—but, unlike Tom, a true master with years of practice.

“Thank you for coming here tonight,” he began. He unrolled a scroll and gazed down grimly at it. “Professor Slughorn and I have concluded our investigation into the attack upon you, Lady Hermione, in Hogsmeade… but before we tell you our findings, I must ask both of you to swear to tell no one of this information other than your lady mother, Lord Thomas.”

“Not my own parents?” Hermione asked.

Dumbledore sighed. “I do not share the contempt for Muggles that so many hold… but it’s simply a fact that Muggles are unable to protect themselves against magical attempts to steal information from their minds.”

“Occlumency,” Tom mumbled to himself.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “Yes,” he said.

Tom considered the request. His mother would probably want to tell Snape, but that was her business. In any case, he could do as Dumbledore asked. “All right, then,” he said. “I swear.”

“And I swear,” Hermione added.

The professors exchanged a glance. “I accept your word,” Dumbledore said. “Now… our findings. Neither Professor Slughorn nor I could find any _student_ who knew anything, but we did question other possible sources of information.”

Tom and Hermione waited.

“The people in Hogsmeade were not all honest with you,” Dumbledore said bluntly. “Most of them _didn’t_ see the assassin’s face, because of where they were when she tumbled onto the street, but two people did.”

Tom’s face darkened. “They didn’t speak up,” he said harshly. “We _asked,_ and no one said anything except for a pupil who claimed that her hood didn’t fall off.”

“Her hood apparently _didn’t_ fall off, but the two people that Professor Slughorn and I found did catch a glimpse of her face.”

“Who were they?”

“Lord Thomas, they asked that I not reveal their identities. You must understand that it would be dangerous for their names to become known if they did identify Lady Bellatrix Lestrange as a would-be assassin.”

This information, dropped in the middle of this sentence, did what Dumbledore meant it to do. Tom’s interest in the informants instantly disappeared.

“I knew it,” he snarled. “I _knew_ it.”

“This is extremely dangerous information,” Professor Slughorn finally spoke up. He was almost shaking with anxiety. “You understand that better than we do, probably.”

“It is dangerous, but not entirely surprising,” Hermione said. She was surprised at how hard and cynical her words were. “Who else would care so much about harming me?”

The professors looked down, sadness in their faces.

“It’s a good question. Could anyone else have known?” Tom asked. “Anyone like, for example, Lord Armand Malfoy?”

Slughorn closed his eyes and shuddered at Tom’s brashness. “We don’t know.”

“We encountered Adel—Lady Adelaide in the hallway,” Tom said. “She made a comment that she was ‘surprised Hermione survived the year.’ She claimed that it meant that she didn’t think Hermione would have been able to do the magic, and I did look her in… I mean….” He broke off. “I just wonder.”

Dumbledore and Slughorn exchanged uneasy glances. “It could be what she said. Alternatively, her mother might have told her what she attempted, only after you—and later, I—questioned her about the attack,” Slughorn said.

Dumbledore was thinking of something else. “You ‘did look her in’—her eyes? Lord Thomas, are you learning Legilimency?”

Caught out, Tom stared stonily at the professor. “Yes,” he said sullenly. “I have a gift for it.”

“It’s true,” Slughorn said. “I told him that myself.”

Dumbledore considered this information for a moment. “Be careful,” he finally said. “It is easy to reveal the ability if you go about it in a brazen way. Your subject can tell at once that you are perusing their thoughts, if you aren’t subtle. I could instruct you in the subject if you would like.”

“Thank you,” he said coolly. “I will consider that.”

It was perfectly clear to Hermione that Tom had already done all the “considering” of the offer that he ever intended. “What do you think we should do about Lady Adelaide, then, if she _does_ know now that her mother tried to kill me?”

The professors exchanged another glance. “I think you should do as you have done this year,” Dumbledore said. “Protect each other. You might also consider making friends in the other Houses—and, Lady Hermione, I’ve noticed that you and Master Potter have done just that. And, too, please remember that no one has any evidence that Lady Adelaide _does_ know what her mother did. If you, Tom, _did_ read her thoughts in the hallway, and still didn’t find what you feared, she may not know. Children do not deserve to be punished for their parents.”

“I wish everyone thought that,” Hermione said unhappily.

* * *

“Why don’t you like Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asked Tom when they were in one of their private alcoves that evening.

Tom stared out the window. “Last year, he caught me reading certain things in the library and scolded me for it.”

Hermione frowned. She did not think that a professor of magic should disapprove of a pupil who wanted to read about the subject. “Reading what?”

Tom seemed unwilling to answer.

“Reading what, Tom?”

“Books that the school _owns,_ that are in its own library, so he had no reason to—” He broke off.

“Books about Legilimency?”

“No. You saw for yourself that he was willing to teach me. It was something else. Old magic.” He turned away from the window and looked at her. “Hermione, I’m worried about something. What if Bellatrix Lestrange knows Occlumency? She could teach it to Adelaide.”

Hermione considered that. “Is there any evidence that she _does?_ Have you heard that?”

“No, but it’s always possible. And if it’s true, then there could be someone in our own House, someone who sleeps just a few rooms away from you, who knows that her murderous bitch of a mother tried to kill you and is covering up for that. That means _she_ could be potentially a killer herself.”

She shook her head. “Tom, you make too many assumptions. You don’t know that Lady Lestrange can even do Occlumency. If she can, you don’t know that she would have taught her daughter. And you also don’t know that Adelaide is capable of murder. Personally, I don’t think she is an Occlumens at all, whether her mother is or not. Does anything— _anything—_ about her seem subtle to you? Do you think she would even be capable of keeping her _mouth_ shut if she had sensitive information, let alone training her mind?”

He scowled. “She will have all summer with her family—or the Malfoys, if they are fostering her now.”

“Then we should certainly observe her closely when we come back in the fall, but we would anyway. She is an adversary.”

Tom did not argue with that.

She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He instantly enveloped her with his. “You should tell your mother about this, though.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I intend to. We’ll see her tomorrow, after all.”

* * *

One of Merope’s house-elves was waiting for them the following day in the main street of Hogsmeade. Hermione was going to visit her parents, but not immediately. She would spend most of the warm months fostered at Parselhall, since it would be her home someday and she would be lady of it. Tom was glad. He was really looking forward to having a mostly empty castle in which to spend time with Hermione, not to mention verdant grounds. Summer in the country would be very different to summer in a city like London. Tom had already gotten a taste of it in the previous year, and this time, Hermione would be much more than just a semi-friend whose presence he tolerated because it was the gentlemanly thing to do. The broad tree-lined stream, for one, might be a great place to bring his serpent Dunlaith. The animal might want to sun itself on the rocks, and he and Hermione could bring books there….

The house-elf took hold of their hands and Apparated them, interrupting Tom’s pleasant imaginings. But in the next moment, after the unpleasant dark sensation, he was standing at the gate of his castle, just outside the Apparition boundary surrounding the edifice, with Hermione and the elf next to him.

They were presented to Merope at once. Tom noted the satisfied smile on his mother’s face. She showed them to the family dining room, where another house-elf brought buttered bread and ale.

“We have something important to tell you,” Tom said.

Merope nodded. “As do I… and Lord Severus. He will be here soon. He lives in his own house, the Prince manor, now.”

Tom wondered about that but did not remark on it.

In a moment, Severus Snape showed up. He took his seat and nodded silently to Merope.

“If you will, Tom, you and Hermione may give your news first,” she said.

Hermione spoke up before Tom could. “Thank you,” she said politely. “Last night, High Master Dumbledore summoned us to his office, where he and Professor Slughorn explained that they had concluded their investigation into the attack on me. In short, someone _did_ see the face of the assassin, and it was Lady Bellatrix Lestrange.” This news did not seem to surprise either Lady Merope or Lord Severus, Hermione noted.

Tom was staring at her with wide but impressed eyes. “The professors wouldn’t tell us who saw Lady Lestrange, but apparently they were residents of Hogsmeade,” he added.

Merope nodded. “This is as we suspected, though it is good to have confirmation of it.”

“We wondered about whether she could be an Occlumens,” Tom said.

Snape frowned, and Merope noticed this. “That I cannot answer… and I am not sure if Lord Severus can, either, but for _our_ information, it is best if he explains.”

The wizard cleared his throat. “I had independent reasons to believe that Lady Lestrange was the assassin, but as your lady mother says, it’s good that we have confirmation of that fact. I do not know if she can do Occlumency, but I can attempt to find out.” He paused. “I am able to do it, and it may be best for you to learn it, both of you….”

Hermione perked up. “I would be very interested in that. Tom is already learning Legilimency….”

 _“Is_ he?” Merope said, giving him a significant look.

“He is,” Tom replied, his tone surly. “Professor Slughorn said I was gifted.”

“It’s not easy to become a master of both,” Snape said. “It’s very difficult to close one’s mind while also being able to read other people.”

“Maybe, but I am sure I could do it. I have no difficulty keeping secrets.”

“I did not say you did, _your lordship._ But if you wish to learn Occlumency as well as Lady Hermione, you may find that it’s not as natural for you as Legilimency apparently is.”

Tom eyed Snape, who returned the look.

“There is something else,” Hermione spoke up, hoping to calm the situation. “A friend of mine, Harry Potter, told me earlier in the year that your lordship had written to his godfather, Sirius Black, to make inquiries about a wizard named Peter Pettigrew.”

Snape was visibly startled, which Tom noticed with smug satisfaction. “I should not have been surprised that Black would pass that information to others,” he said harshly.

“It was a letter he sent by owl to Harry. He doesn’t think that Black told anyone but him and his parents.”

Snape considered this, scowling deeply, before he spoke again. “It hardly matters. It did not have to be a secret. Pettigrew—if he’s still alive—is a wizard who is sworn to Lady Riddle, but he disappeared, with his mother, just after the death of Lord Marvolo Gaunt and has not been heard from since. I wrote to Sirius Black because Pettigrew was a friend of his in Hogwarts.”

“If Pettigrew still lives, I will insist that he come to this castle and reaffirm his oath to this family,” Merope said tautly. “It is possible that he doesn’t know any of the family remain, though.”

“When did my grandfather die?” Tom asked.

“About three years ago,” Merope said. “He was a very imperfect lord, with a tyrannical streak, but my brother had that streak _and_ was incompetent. Most of our vassals, except for Lord Severus, fled, vanished, or swore to other lords.”

Tom considered this silently. In the lull, Hermione spoke up with the other juicy piece of information that she and Tom had learned from the spring discussion with Harry. “Apparently, Sirius Black and Harry’s father are Animagi,” she supplied.

This also shocked Snape. “He said that?”

Jerked out of his contemplation, Tom nodded eagerly. “I used _Legilimency_ on him,” he said pointedly, looking at his mother and Snape in turn. “He acknowledged it, but he said he didn’t know if Pettigrew was too.”

“I will write to Black again and ask him,” Snape growled. “He did not see fit to tell me that piece of information in his reply. Did young Potter happen to say what the animal forms were?” He scowled again, obviously resenting asking Tom and Hermione for information.

“Black’s form is a dog,” Tom said with a shrug. “That should be obvious.”

“Tom,” Merope began to say in a very sharp tone.

“I also saw it in his thoughts. Potter’s is a stag.”

Snape gave the young wizard another hard look. “It should be obvious, you say, but independent confirmation is always better than assumptions… which _can_ be faulty.” He turned to Merope. “I will tell Black that I not only know of his ability, but also his form—and Potter’s. I wonder very much now if those two are harboring Pettigrew in an animal form of his own….”

“Harry didn’t even know if Pettigrew was an Animagus,” Hermione said, eager to defend her friend.

Snape’s face softened, inexplicably to Hermione. “That’s true. Lord Thomas did say that… and that’s important. I cannot imagine that Potter would conceal that information from his wife, and if she knew about it, I cannot imagine that she would keep it from her son.”

“Why would he hide among the Potter family, in any case?” Hermione inquired. “If he really is doing that, he would just about have to know that Lady Riddle rules here, which would mean that he was deliberately avoiding his duties—and that they were helping him.”

“That’s very true,” Snape said. “He probably isn’t. _But,”_ he continued, “I know that Black _definitely_ did not tell me everything, so I have to wonder just what else he kept from me.”

Merope studied Snape shrewdly. “You were not friendly with them at Hogwarts, were you?”

“I was not.” Snape closed up, clearly not wanting to elaborate further upon that subject. “And then there was the uprising in Godric’s Hollow in 1130….”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Uprising?”

Snape almost regretted mentioning that, but he supposed that they would hear about it sooner or later anyway. “A small group of wizards and witches attempted to overthrow the lord that Abraxas Malfoy had placed there as a regent for his son, but it turned out that someone had told the Malfoys in advance and so Lord Lucius _was_ there to quash it.”

“Potter’s parents and Black were part of that?” Tom asked.

Snape hesitated. “No one knows who was part of it. They were disguised, or else Lord Lucius would have executed them all. But Black and Potter have certainly seemed to hold _me_ in contempt for, in their eyes, staying in service to a lord whom they saw as an ally of the Malfoys.”

“Well, it failed anyway, so that’s a stupid thing for him to judge you for. Typical Gryffindors. And _Mother_ certainly isn’t an ally to the Malfoys,” Tom declared proudly.

Merope wanted to scold Tom for his obvious house bias, but she could not bring herself to do so. It was not just his Hogwarts house, after all, but his family.

* * *

After this discussion, Tom went to his bedroom, where he found his serpent familiar coiled in a sunlight-drenched chair waiting for him. The snake flicked its tongue out of its mouth at the sight of its master.

Tom extended his arm, and Dunlaith curled around his wrist.

 _“Where is your mate, master?”_ the snake hissed.

Tom raised his eyebrows. _“She is in the castle, in her own room. And don’t call her that.”_

The snake seemed truly confused. _“Why not? Is she not anymore?”_

_“She never was—not yet. She is just my betrothed.”_

_“I do not know this word, master.”_

_“It means that she will be my wife—my mate—someday.”_

Dunlaith considered this. _“Humans are strange to me. My kind do not wait if we want to mate. We do not postpone the opportunity to have offspring, because we may not have it again. There are many predators.”_

Tom had suddenly had quite enough of this conversation. _“Well, my kind do wait. Our lives are more complicated than yours, but also safer, so we can make long-term plans. We have ‘predators’ too, but they are our own kind and we can fight them.”_

The serpent seemed to accept this explanation.

* * *

Hermione decided the next day that she wanted to visit the castle grounds again as she had done occasionally the previous summer, and Tom was more than happy to go with her. With the snake curled around his left wrist, Tom escorted Hermione to the unspoiled stream, his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, creating speckles of gold on the green grass. The water flowed almost musically. Tom bent over, allowing Dunlaith to uncurl herself from Tom’s wrist. The snake slithered to a rock that was exposed to full sunlight from a break in the foliage.

Tom unfolded the heavy cloth he had brought and laid it on the ground. He and Hermione promptly sat down, putting almost no space between themselves.

Hermione leaned against him, feeling the warm sunlight on her face. “I like being here,” she observed.

“‘Here’ meaning this exact site, or the property as a whole?” he asked.

She chuckled. “Both. It feels as if no harm could come to us here.”

Tom smiled with serene smugness. “My mother puts the safety of the family first, it’s true. The walls surrounding the town have magical wards on them, the walls around the castle have more, and the inner keep has the strongest ones of all.”

“Yes, I know why it is so, _rationally,”_ Hermione said, a half-smirk on her face. “But I also meant that there’s an intangible aura of safety too.”

He did not reply to this, though he understood exactly what she meant. It seemed sufficient to pull her closer and plant a kiss on the side of her face.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed him backward onto the ground. His dark eyes flew wide open as she half-lay on him, but he did not overthink it. He resumed kissing her, running a single hand into her hair and thoroughly mussing it as she rested on him.

From its vantage point on the rock, the snake watched her master and mistress coil together on the ground, as her own kind did.

After a few minutes of cuddling, the young couple broke apart. An unkempt lock of bushy hair fell into Hermione’s face.

“Ugh,” she observed, flipping it back. “We can’t let ourselves be seen looking like this. People would think we’ve been up to a lot more than we really have.” She flushed faintly at that.

 _“Your_ hair is certainly mussed,” Tom agreed. “I expect mine looks fine, though.”

Hermione drew her wand and touched its tip to the end of his nose. She raised her eyebrows, but he could see the teasing in her eyes. Smirking, he smoothed her hair for her, making sure the part was straight again.

They sat silently for a few more minutes, gazing at the stream as they considered their own thoughts. Hermione stole occasional glimpses of Tom’s handsome profile. Her thoughts turned to a subject that was now disturbingly familiar to her. _We were never guaranteed to like each other this much,_ she thought. _It really was good fortune. If my parents had not seen me doing rudimentary magic when they did, and gone to the same hearing that Tom’s mother did, I would have been sent to someone else._ A chill that came from inside her own body spread across her, temporarily overcoming the pleasant warmth of summer that surrounded them.

 _It didn’t happen,_ she reminded herself. _This is what is real. This is my future._

He rose from the blanket, crawled over to the rock where Dunlaith sunned herself, and extended his left wrist to the snake. He hissed a command to her in Parseltongue, which Hermione could not understand but which sent another, much more pleasant kind of chill across her body. The snake entwined around his arm, and he turned back to Hermione as he got to his feet, offering his other hand to her. They picked up the blanket and continued to explore the green grounds.

They passed through the small village on the way back to the castle, earning respectful bows from the peasant folk of Hangleton. Neither of them had any particular business in town, but it was best for them to show interest and occasionally appear before their people. That was what Merope had done, and she had their undivided loyalty now, even if they were Muggles.

 _Still,_ Tom thought smugly, _it is only right that Muggles should be subject to the rule of witches and wizards. Too bad that this isn’t the case at the highest levels. Two Muggle pretenders to the throne right now…._

Distracted with his own thoughts, Tom did not immediately notice the small gray blur that darted down the cobbled street, nor the larger brown one that followed in close pursuit. Hermione did. She pulled free of Tom and drew her wand, just as a dark orange cat caught a gray rat between its jaws.

The cat turned around, eyeing the people nearby, its gaze settling upon Hermione’s face.

“Release that, kitty,” she coaxed the animal. The rat was squeaking and twisting in the cat’s mouth.

The cat gazed at Hermione with eyes that seemed unusually intelligent. For a moment, Hermione wondered if the cat might be an Animagus… but then it passed. The rat twisted around in a way that was almost not ratlike and bit the cat on the side of its neck… but Hermione did not have time to think too hard about the rat’s behavior either. A screech escaped the cat’s mouth as it dropped its prey, which immediately darted away.

“On second thought, let the cat kill that filthy thing,” Tom said. Entwined around his wrist, his serpent hissed her agreement.

The cat hissed and made to resume its pursuit, but Hermione cast a stunning spell at it. The animal froze in its tracks. Hermione approached it and picked it up, making note of the wound in its neck that was bleeding slightly. The cat continued to hiss in fury, its intelligent eyes fixed obsessively upon the rat as the rat disappeared, heading for the outer walls.

“We’ll need to heal this,” Hermione said to Tom. He nodded in agreement as they returned to the castle.

They carried the protesting cat into the room of the castle that was reserved for potionmaking. It somewhat resembled the laboratory at Hogwarts where Professor Slughorn presided, but without the telltale signs of student activities. Here, there were no marks of melted cauldrons marring the tables, no childish vandalism, and no locked cabinets of ingredients that a professor had determined were too dangerous for pupils to use unsupervised. Tom went to one cabinet in particular, opened its doors, and scanned the labeled flasks and bottles until he found what he was looking for.

“Here we are,” he said briskly, returning with a flask. “A general anti-infection medication, in case that foul rat had something.”

“There now, kitty,” Hermione said, petting the cat, which was now much calmer. The blood from the wound had congealed, matting its long fur. She drew her wand and cleaned this spot. Tom drew a tiny amount of potion with a syringe, which he then pressed, squeezing a few drops onto the wound. The cat hissed for a moment, but the pain apparently passed. It began to purr, and Hermione smiled, casting a spell to completely heal the wound.

“You need a name, kitty,” she said as the cat scrambled to its feet and leapt to the floor, though sticking by her.

The cat slipped under her trailing skirt and rubbed her ankles. It poked its head out and gazed at her with those intelligent eyes.

“Hmm…” she mused.

The cat ambled out from under her robe, its bandy-legged walk provoking a smile.

“You are Crookshanks,” she declared. The cat flicked its tail, turned around to meet her eyes once more, and then let out a mew.

“I think he agrees,” she said to Tom.

“Well, I don’t speak _cat,”_ Tom said.

“That is his name,” she said. She scooped up the cat, which did not protest at all now.

* * *

Merope was pleased to learn that Hermione had found an animal familiar of her own now. “I am so happy for you,” she said, petting Crookshanks in the family parlor that evening. “I never had one of my own.”

“You could still get one,” Tom said. “It’s not as if it’s too late.”

“It is something that must happen naturally,” she said mildly. She smiled at the cat. “I have not noticed a rodent problem in the castle, but it sounds as if Crookshanks would make absolutely certain of it.” She scratched him behind his ears. “If they ever do turn up, I am sure he will take care of the problem.”

“Certainly the one he was chasing through the street of town today,” Hermione said with a chuckle.

The cat purred in agreement.

* * *

That night, Tom was lying in his bed, reading a book from the family library. Much to his dismay, he had not been able to find any of the books in the Hogwarts library that his mother had blocked him from reading here. Surely they were there _somewhere._ Salazar Slytherin was a founder of Hogwarts, and Merlin and Morgana were legendary magical figures in this country— _even if hardly anyone knows the truth about them anymore,_ he thought sourly. The book he was reading was a biography of the ancient Greek sorcerer, Herpo, who was—in Tom’s opinion—wrongly slurred by the descriptor “the Foul” by the same kind of wizards who now designated Merlin a hero and Morgana a villain.

The Romans had learned of Herpo’s magical breakthroughs and had spread the knowledge to the Celts, his ancestors. Tom was especially interested in the basilisk that Herpo had created by experimental breeding. _The King of Serpents…_ that seemed like a title that was not just fitting for a great serpent, but also for its master….

 _The snake that Hermione gave me is my familiar,_ he reminded himself. _If Slytherin left behind a basilisk, it would be more of a weapon than a pet. This is a creature that kills with its gaze, and there is not a word about Parselmouths being immune to that._

Tom then thought about Herpo’s other great accomplishment, which might solve that problem. _No,_ he told himself. _No. I can’t help but speculate on magical theory and possibility, but certain kinds of magic should never be done lightly._ Tom was sure that he had heard someone—probably his mother—say something like this before, but he could not place when.

A faint knock on the door interrupted Tom’s dark musings. _Who could it be at this time?_ he wondered, getting out of bed. He opened the door and found himself facing Hermione.

She slipped inside and pushed the door closed.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “When I brought Crookshanks into my bedroom, he immediately nosed out this hole in the wall that I had never noticed last summer. I’m not even sure it was there.”

Tom then noticed that the aforementioned cat was rubbing silkily against Hermione’s legs. He had slipped in the door with her when it was open.

“He wouldn’t get away from the spot, and hissed at me when I picked him up. It just… felt creepy,” she said. “I can’t explain how, and it seems silly, but I wanted to be here instead.”

Tom noticed that the cat was not interested in any of the walls in his room. That was oddly comforting. Hermione’s narrative had unsettled him a bit, though he was not about to admit it. As she had implied, it was not rational. “I’ll tell my mother about it tomorrow,” he said. “There was probably a rat nest. We should let your cat go over the entire castle.”

Crookshanks purred.

“But you… I mean… do you want me to show you to a guest bedroom?”

Hermione hesitated. “Actually… I thought that….” She gazed at his large bed.

His eyes popped open in utter disbelief. “Hermione.”

“Just to sleep here!” she exclaimed, her face coloring. “Just sleep. No one would see. The elves don’t come in while we’re sleeping. Your mother doesn’t walk the castle at night, and I know that Lord Severus does, but he has no right to barge into our rooms—”

“He also lives in his own manor now.”

“That’s right,” she remembered. “Well, then. No one would see us. And what’s the worst that could happen if your mother did?”

“She could make you do what you don’t want to do, and get married early,” he said pointedly.

“I don’t think she would. I would take Veritaserum to prove that there would be no reason for it, and a charm would reveal that I wasn’t with child.”

Tom stood, staring at her. She folded her arms.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I’m sure your cat would bite me, anyway.”

Hermione chuckled at this as she crossed the room. Moonlight filtered through the wavy diamond-paned glass. She climbed gingerly onto his mattress. Tom hesitated before joining her and pulling the covers up. He closed the drapes on the bed that faced the door, leaving the ones facing the window partially open.

Hermione gazed at the book he had been reading and had dropped on his spare pillow. “What’s this?”

“A biography of a great sorcerer.” He took it gently off the pillow and placed it in the drawer of his night table. “Good night, Hermione.”

She looked for a moment as if she wanted to say more, but she changed her mind. “Good night, Tom.”

Tom relaxed, but only for a moment. In the next moment, Hermione curled against him. _“Just” sleep?_ he thought. It would have been unthinkable a year ago, but if Hermione did this more than one night, it could get very distracting. He would have to tell Mother about the rat hole tomorrow and make sure it did get patched up.

No one disturbed their rest that night.


	15. Unbreakable Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This is one of the chapters I warned about in the notes at the beginning of the story—not for violence, but for the other warning.
> 
> I honestly think it would be anachronistic and inexplicable for Tom and Hermione to purposely avoid consummating if they wanted to—which they clearly do. They are 14 years old by the end of this chapter (and Tom is closer to 15), and in the twelfth century, that would be old enough to actually marry. Also, premarital sex for an engaged couple was not itself unusual. It was less common for arranged betrothals, of course, but people in those certainly weren’t always in love or attracted to each other. Hermione and Tom are, though, and Hermione would have no reason to fear that Tom would break it off. He couldn’t.
> 
> However, since Hermione and Tom _are_ 14, and we’re reading this in the 21st century, I have not written this to be too explicit. I’d feel gross about doing so. It does warrant the archive warning, but I think I’ve kept it tasteful. Nevertheless, if this is not something you want to read, I’ve written it at the very end of this chapter, so you can stop reading there and not miss anything else. In addition, there are a _lot_ of other things that happen in this chapter before that scene.

Crookshanks was shooting murderous feline glares at the latest hole he had identified in the castle, this one located in Snape’s chancellor’s office, which he retained in the castle because of his administrative duties. The cat had already located one in Merope’s office, as well as the one that he had discovered in Hermione’s bedroom. Snape was personally affronted at the fact that vermin had penetrated his sanctum.

“I warded the walls in this room,” he snarled, “and yours,” he added to Merope. “It should not have been able to gnaw through.” He drew his wand and, for the third time, cast a spell to repair the wall.

Merope considered. “The castle is very old, and there may have been some remnants of conflicting magic that undermined your wards.”

“I should have been able to detect such a thing!”

“It can be subtle,” Hermione interjected. “A magical analogue to mold that slowly rots away a wall, or a drip of water that’s almost not noticeable.”

Snape glared at Hermione, irritated at what he saw as her know-it-all nature, but not able to contradict her point.

Tom had stood aside, not offering any comments on the proceedings, just studying Crookshanks. “This cat is very intelligent,” he remarked. Crookshanks ambled over to him, slunk under his robe, and rubbed against his legs before emerging again.

“Fortunately for us!” Snape exclaimed. Even when he was not actually snapping at someone, his voice tended to have an edge to it.

Tom was used to Snape’s personality by now. He eyed the older wizard and turned aside wordlessly.

* * *

_Godric’s Hollow._

Sirius Black descended from the ladder that led to his loft bedroom. Occasionally he still missed the family castle, or really, any of the manors that the family owned. The Potters’ house _was_ much nicer than a typical non-magical peasant’s cottage would be. It had three full-sized rooms—kitchen, general-purpose living area, and master bedroom—and it even had a separate loft room for Harry, which had been carved out of Sirius’s attic space as he outgrew his cradle. Few Muggle cottages could boast of this much space, especially since they could temporarily shrink whichever items they were not currently using in the general-purpose room. For that matter, _no_ Muggle cottages could boast of the comfortable temperatures that could be maintained with two adult wizards and a witch there to insulate the structure with magic. But it still was not what Sirius had grown up with.

He made his way to the breakfast table where Lily was ladling porridge into everyone’s bowl. Sirius mumbled thanks and slunk into his seat, late, but fortunately these were his friends and did not stand on much ceremony. He began to eat his food. An excellent cook, Lily. Probably it was the same talent that made her so good with potions. Such a damnable shame that the Malfoy-Lestrange-Black alliance and their toadies had kept her out of Hogwarts.

Lily suddenly got up to open the casement window overlooking the table. A draft of wind rippled across the room as the family owl, Hedwig, soared in. She dropped a scroll for Sirius before perching on the open window ledge.

Sirius scowled blackly at the wax seal on the scroll: a coiled serpent surrounded by a ring of elder tree leaves, the new insignia of House Gaunt—House Riddle, now. That meant it was from Snape, making some other blasted inquiry on behalf of his liege, using her authority to cover his own meddling. Already primed to be annoyed, Sirius popped the seal and unrolled the scroll. In a few moments, he tossed it onto the table, his black eyebrows narrowing.

“What’s the matter, Padfoot?” James Potter asked his friend.

 _“Snivellus,”_ Sirius managed to spit. “He knows about our forms.”

Lily frowned momentarily at the insulting nickname, but she quickly rearranged her features to look normal. Harry suddenly hunched over, trying to make himself look small.

James shrugged, not noticing the reactions of either member of his family. “What of it? He isn’t our lord, nor is Lady Riddle. We _were_ supposed to declare our forms to Malfoy, but Snape isn’t working for Malfoy. What’s the harm?”

“Who knows who he’s really working for?” Sirius said darkly. “I half suspect he corresponds with my brother. But this message is about Peter. He’s obsessed with Peter and thinks he may have a form too and that I purposely concealed that from him.” He ate the last spoonful of porridge and added, “I’d like to know how he even found out about our animal forms.”

Harry finally spoke up. “It was my fault,” he said. “I told Hermione—”

 _“Lady_ Hermione,” Lily corrected him gently.

Harry smiled insincerely. His mother could not seem to accept the fact that his friends at Hogwarts were very casual about their titles when it came to their close friends. “Yes. And I’m sure that she and Riddle passed it on.”

Some of Sirius’s anger deflated at that. “Well, if that’s how it happened, then very well… but he needs to stop thinking I know anything about Peter. _He_ probably saw Peter more recently than I did.”

“That’s true. He might. Peter disappeared, with his mother, after the death of Lord Marvolo Gaunt,” James mused. “No one has heard from him since. I hope he _does_ have an Animagus form, because otherwise I’m afraid we have to assume he is dead—probably at the hands of that appalling brother of Lady Riddle’s, as soon as he came into the title….”

“But Snape should know about it if something like that happened,” Lily objected.

“Yes, probably so,” James agreed. “So maybe they just fled after seeing what Lord Morfin was like. Or maybe his old mother died privately, and _he_ fled after doing the rites for her. It’s possible he studied the Animagus transformation privately after he saw us master it… I hope that happened… because otherwise I do not think Peter is with us anymore.”

“Then I’ll tell Snape that,” Sirius snarled, pushing up his chair and rummaging in his robes for his wand to summon a piece of paper for a reply letter.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

“This is a useless correspondence,” Severus declared, setting down the letter he had just received from Sirius Black. “He does not know if Pettigrew ever learned to transform, but he says ‘it is possible’ given that he and Potter did it when they were young. In other words,” he said, his recognizable savage snarl entering his tone, “they were careless and boastful of what they were up to. He claims that Lord Lucius doesn’t know about their forms, but how can he _not_ if they were as careless as he implies?”

“If he does know, why would he not have acted?” Merope challenged. “I am sure that he suspects they were involved in the uprising years ago… and I would be surprised if they _weren’t._ But even if he cannot prove that, he could prove that they lied to him, their liege lord, about _something._ It would be an excuse to be rid of them. I don’t agree, Severus—I think he is in the dark.”

Severus scowled.

“Black probably means that he and Potter were open with their own friends about what they were doing, not everyone. _You_ didn’t know about it, after all, so why should Lord Lucius? You should not let your dislike of Black and Potter cloud your reason,” she said gently.

“Perhaps not,” Severus said grudgingly, “but the correspondence _is_ pointless. You are right: I don’t like Black. And because he’s not able to provide any useful information to me, I see no point in continuing to write to someone I do not like. I have other sources.”

Merope nodded. “Any word from the prime source’s little informant?”

Severus shook his head. “Not since the initial suggestion that they are talking to Caractacus Burke. If they have had any additional meetings since that one, I have not been informed of it.”

“And he never found out what the subject of the meeting was?”

“I am afraid not. I told you my suspicions… there is little else that they would have summoned an untitled manor-holder, a former shopkeeper, to their grand castle for. He would be beneath them, pureblood or no.”

Merope sighed. “I hardly know whether to reveal what I fear about myself. I cannot prove it, for one… it may not be true… but if it is, then in their eyes, there would no longer be a reason to care about whether I live.”

Severus looked alarmed at this statement from her. “My lady… there is _no_ occasion for talking about that. You had a difficult childbirth, it is true—”

“And severe injuries. I am sure that I would have died if I had not healed myself.”

“But you _did_ heal yourself. You have no reason to think that there was permanent damage, and as you rightly say, voicing this fear as if it were fact would give them every reason to try to harm you, your son, Lady Hermione, and to try to seize this castle for themselves.”

Merope did not argue. She ran a delicate hand across the table in front of them and sighed. They both remained silent for a minute until she spoke again.

“He is alive.”

Severus’s gaze shot up. Alarm filled his dark eyes. “You’re certain of that?”

She nodded. “I saw him through the window with my own eyes. He had a lovely blonde Muggle lady next to him, so I made an additional investigation of the local records….”

“Divorce or annulment?” Severus’s voice was anxious.

“Divorce,” she said. “As I suspected, he apparently claimed that I abandoned him, which freed him to remarry. Lying, cowardly, prejudiced Muggle wretch….” Her eyebrows narrowed in anger. “For Tom, of course, that is preferable… the last thing he needs is something in Muggle records that would make his parents’ marriage invalid and therefore make him ‘illegitimate’… that would require someone to secretly clean it up… but for me, of course, it presents a difficulty if I wanted to remarry, since I swore a magical oath.”

“And a grave danger to Riddle if my suspicions about Burke are correct and the Malfoys find out that he is still alive.”

They fell silent again, the weight of this information putting an intangible but nonetheless vast distance between them.

“I do not want Tom to find out yet,” Merope said. “I mean to tell him in my own time, but not now.”

Severus nodded. “Did they have any children?”

“I saw none. That does not mean there _were_ none, of course, and that is another matter I must find out before I tell Tom about it.”

* * *

After the night that they secretly slept in Tom’s bed, Hermione had not wanted to talk about it with him, nor apparently he with her. Neither of them mentioned the subject for several weeks, but it stuck in Hermione’s imagination anyway. She found herself dreaming about how it might have gone if they had not been so proper that night—if, instead of simply curling up together, they had started to kiss and embrace as fervently as they did in private moments during waking hours. She knew exactly how it might have ended up.

These thoughts brought heat to her cheeks, but the embarrassment at the idea was diminishing. The heat was… a different sort now. It just did not seem that there would be anything wrong with it if they did decide to take their affections much farther than they yet had. Some noble lordlings engaged in shameful forced trysts with servant women, or took advantage of the romantic naïveté of peasant girls, never touching their actual fiancées until they were married… but Tom was not one of those. He wanted _her,_ and she wanted him. What difference would it make if they acted on that desire a bit early? She would not be a virgin on her wedding night, in that case… but he would not care about it if he knew he was responsible for that.

She recalled his interest in early marriage and hesitated at this line of thought. She would have to make absolutely certain that she would not become pregnant… and she would need to extract a promise from him that he would not tell his mother about it to pressure her into an official, public wedding earlier than she wanted.

There was perhaps a way. Under old magical custom, consummating a betrothal _was_ a valid method of marriage. It would not suffice for the complex legal arrangement that involved property rights, dowry money, and required solemnization by a religious officiant, but by the customs of the ancient magical culture that Hermione knew Tom was so enamored of, it was marriage. Maybe that would satisfy him.

— _If_ she decided to act. She still had qualms. She did not know how to prevent pregnancy, but surely there was a spell or a potion that would do it. Magical families did seem to be much smaller than Muggle families, based on her observations at Hogwarts—even the common families, who were probably mostly love matches and might be supposed to be more fecund than nobles who mostly reproduced out of duty. There must be _something._

* * *

The end of summer approached, and with it, the two began to get ready to return to Hogwarts. Unlike many pupils, they did not need to refresh themselves on the subject matter, because they had spent much of the summer reading.

Tom had gone to the family library essentially every day that it rained—and some when it did not. Hermione had gone there with him whenever he did. She had developed a strong interest in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes lately, which was pleasant, as Tom too had quite an interest in ancient history and the magical languages of the old culture. It was another subject over which they had bonded.

“I look forward to this coming year,” Tom observed one day toward the end of August. “Apparently, there is a project combining several magical disciplines that is open to _certain_ students, the best ones of course, and it is a full-fledged ritual.”

Hermione’s interest was piqued at once. “That sounds very advanced! Of course you will get to do it, though.”

“I would not rule out the possibility that you will too,” he said seriously. “You have a gift for Arithmancy.”

Hermione smiled proudly. “What does the ritual do?”

“It is performed on the eve of Beltane, and it takes advantage of the magic of that date… I understand that when it’s done correctly, it results in a powerful charm upon one specific magical endeavor that we pick, and the charm lasts all summer.”

“Oh, so you could not use it for studies at Hogwarts, then,” she said slyly.

Tom shot an admiring gaze at her. “No… but I like the way you think.”

She smirked. “You would not need such help anyway.”

He smirked back, fully in agreement. She edged closer to him, and in the next moment, he was embracing her, pulling her close, and nuzzling the side of her neck. The smirk on her face turned into a smile as she eagerly returned his affections.

They pulled apart, breathing heavily, and gazed at each other for a while. Then Hermione spoke.

“Remember when I came to your bedchamber?” she asked.

He gazed evenly at her, fighting a smirk. “It is hardly something I would forget.”

“Well,” she said boldly, “I may join you again tonight, after your mother is in bed.” She winked.

Tom drew away from her and looked aside. The ghost of a smirk disappeared.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious and doubtful. Perhaps he really was not comfortable with that night, and _that_ was why he had not discussed it. Perhaps he was put off by how forward she was with him now. Perhaps—

“I assume it is not because your cat found another hole in the wall,” he said, attempting levity but failing. Hermione rallied with a forced smile, but this too failed as she shook her head. Tom sighed. “Hermione, this is risky.”

“What does it risk?” she challenged. “In our specific situation, what does it risk? If we were discovered, it would either be by an elf—whom you could order to silence—or by your mother, and _she_ would hardly separate us!”

“I have said what it risks. Have you changed your mind about that?”

“Your mother would listen to us if we said we hadn’t done anything.”

For another moment, Tom continued to look away, but then he turned to face Hermione. “I agree—but I’m not entirely sure that we _would_ avoid ‘doing anything.’”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Have you been in my mind, Tom Riddle? I would appreciate it if you _asked—”_

“I have done no such thing… but after _that,_ I don’t believe I need to,” he said, his smirk back on his handsome face.

She flushed faintly, but she held her gaze with his. “Nor, apparently, would I need to read _your_ thoughts if I were a Legilimens. But this is good—it means that we both are aware of these… desires… and that we _should_ be better able to control ourselves.”

“Should,” he murmured, reaching idly for her waist to pull her close once more.

Hermione let his fingers caress the small of her back for a moment. “I have a sound motive,” she said. “I do not know how to prevent pregnancy.”

“I have heard that there is a potion.”

“That is as I expected… but I don’t know how to make it, so I have every reason to be careful. Please, Tom,” she said. “It will be harder once we are back at Hogwarts. I want to enjoy every moment that we have this summer.”

He considered for a moment before nodding. “Tonight, then.”

* * *

That night, when the stars were shining brightly and the sky was impenetrably black, Tom heard the expected light knock on his bedroom door. Hermione pushed it open just enough to slip through and closed it behind her. Tom noticed that the cat was again with her. He looked down at the sharp-eyed animal circling her legs and raised his eyebrows.

“He followed me,” she explained, not needing him to voice his question. “I was not about to leave him behind if he wanted to accompany me here.”

“He might go to Mother, certainly,” Tom agreed. He lifted the covers for her as she crossed the room.

She noticed that his snake familiar was coiled in the single patch of moonlight that reached the bedside table. The reptile roused itself from sleep and flicked its tongue at her, seemingly in greeting. Crookshanks leapt into a chair and curled into a ball himself, apparently unconcerned about “protecting” his mistress from Tom despite Tom’s joke to that effect the first time that Hermione had joined him. He noticed the animals’ reactions and smirked as Hermione got in bed beside him.

“It seems that our familiars have offered their approval to us,” he observed.

“They should,” she murmured. She paused, hesitating, before crawling on top of him. Nervously, haltingly, she ran her hand down his side, through the robe that he wore to bed. Since it was summer, it was notably thin. She was quite sure that he was not wearing an additional layer—and neither was she.

He was startled for a moment, but he recovered quickly, placing his palms on her back as she descended upon him to kiss him. His hands moved to her waist, holding her in place.

“I am so glad that this has happened between us,” she whispered in between kisses.

He suddenly noticed that her sleep robe had ridden up her legs to her thighs. Without even thinking about it, he tightened his grip on her waist and flipped her onto her back, then pressed her into the mattress aggressively. She gasped and breathed heavily as he bent down to kiss her on the side of her neck.

“Liking you and wanting you does make this situation _so_ much easier,” he growled, his eyes gleaming in the starlight with teasing.

A shadow momentarily passed over Hermione’s face at his words. “Hermione?” he asked, noticing.

She met his gaze again. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It does.” She tried to rally a smile but could not quite manage it.

Although Tom did not understand exactly what had made her so immediately sober, the pause brought him back to earth. He realized, with surprise and some disquiet, that he very likely would have gone against his expressed intentions if she had not had this pensive moment. He eased off her and onto his side, giving her a very chaste kiss, in sharp contrast with what they had been doing.

“Good night,” he murmured.

She seemed relieved to have pulled back from the brink as well. As she had done the first time, she curled against him innocently and closed her eyes.

* * *

At last the day came that they would return to Scotland. One of Merope’s elves walked with them to the great hall of the castle. Merope herself smiled proudly as they Disapparated from the castle. _A year ago I would not have believed I would have this thought,_ she thought, _but I hope they can be a bit more discreet at the school than they were here._ She had seen them embracing and kissing in various alcoves and corridors of the castle when they thought they were alone. It was gratifying that they liked each other this much, certainly a vast relief to Merope, and there was no harm in it when they were at home, but at Hogwarts they ran the risk of being observed by their peers. It was perhaps an odd social more that nobles should not appear vulnerable before other nobles outside their closest family, but so it was.

Meanwhile, Tom and Hermione gazed around the familiar grounds of Hogsmeade as they waited for the rest of the students to arrive. When everyone was finally there, they began to enter the castle and took their places at the Slytherin table, next to each other, with Harry Potter on Hermione’s other side. She noticed that Daphne Greengrass was sitting next to Marcus Flint, one of the Slytherin boys that Tom had begun to cultivate last year as a possible political ally against Draco Malfoy. That was new. Perhaps they were betrothed now? Hermione supposed that if that were the case, she would certainly hear about it in the Slytherin common room after the Sorting and feast.

The Sorting itself held no surprises. Hermione clapped with the rest of the House as Daphne’s very pretty younger sister, Astoria, joined them. She almost missed another interaction, but Tom’s calculating, fixed gaze caught her attention. She followed the line of his dark eyes and realized, with surprise, that Draco Malfoy was giving Astoria admiring looks—and Adelaide Lestrange was very displeased about this.

Malfoy winced suddenly, and Hermione realized that Lestrange must have cursed or pinched him under the table. She smothered a smirk and returned to her meal with Tom. That was interesting indeed, though she hoped that Malfoy did not do anything untoward to Daphne’s sister that would harm the younger girl’s reputation. The Malfoys already had too much power over other noble families.

At the end of the Sorting, a new Weasley, this one female, sat on the stool for quite some time until the Hat finally declared her a Gryffindor. Hermione wondered about the Weasley family, remembering what Tom and Harry had said about them. On the other hand, if they would torment Harry for being Sorted differently to his father and godfather, perhaps she should not bother trying to get to know any of them… but then, this girl, Ginevra, apparently almost _wasn’t_ a Gryffindor….

Hermione pushed these thoughts out of her head. There would be plenty of time during the year to determine if she wanted to make any new friends outside her House.

* * *

_A few weeks later._

Hermione’s fourteenth birthday dawned cloudy, but she did not mind; the cool temperatures brought about by the cloud cover were pleasant. She rose early and went to the ground floor to see the sun; the underground location of the Slytherin common room and bedchambers was something that she was still not used to. She sat next to a window and silently thought, enjoying the solitude.

She had found her feelings about Tom—and Hogwarts—increasingly darkened with reflections on what might have happened if things had gone differently, though it was not quite that simple, she supposed. It was not that she enjoyed her time with Tom or her education at Hogwarts any less for these new thoughts. In fact, it was rather the opposite. But that did not change the fact that these new, more mature thoughts reflected a certain loss of innocence.

 _If Tom had not supported me after Adelaide Lestrange attacked me a year ago, I am not sure that I would have bothered taking revenge of my own,_ she thought. _I do not think I would have given up on Hogwarts, but I am quite sure that she and her pack of followers would have continued to bully me all year, and it would have gotten ever worse with time—as hard as that is to consider._ She did not want to consider the details of just how bad the bullying might have become, given how brutally it had begun.

 _And without Tom’s support, not only would I have been subjected to continued bullying, I would have become pessimistic about our relationship. I would have assumed that I would never have real affection from him… and with Harry’s friendship, I might have…._ Hermione did not want to complete that thought. She understood, at last, exactly why Tom had been darkly cynical that she might find another young wizard that she liked better. She would not have been tempted to act on any such feelings—despite what she fantasized about with Tom, she _was_ too acutely aware of her station to consider acting on similar fantasies with anyone except her fiancé—but merely having forbidden feelings at all would have made her miserable. _And that, combined with the near-certain bullying…._

It had not happened that way, she reminded herself. Her initial conviction that Tom liked her had proved true, he had backed her up, and their combined strength had dissuaded Adelaide or her minions from continuing any physical attacks on her.

 _Lady Lestrange might not have attempted to kill me in Hogsmeade,_ she thought. It did appear that the assassination attempt was provoked by Adelaide’s disgrace… but it was also possible that the girl’s mother might have made an attempt on Hermione’s life even if that had not happened. After all, she _did_ object to someone of Hermione’s background attending Hogwarts.

 _These wizard blood politics are terrible,_ she thought. _I must have magical ancestry just like everyone else, even if I don’t know who the witch or wizard was. And then there is the fact that the Wizards’ Council families and their allies seem to consider people with Norman ancestry superior to those without…._

Hermione remembered, with some disquiet, that Tom manifestly believed the opposite. He was exceedingly proud of his heritage, which was natural for anyone, but the venom that he spouted for the Normans— _her_ ancestors too, in part—also approached extreme levels sometimes. He would use terms like “usurpers,” “robber lords,” and “occupiers” casually, as synonyms for the people of Normandy who now lived in England, almost daring anyone to challenge him. He did appear to make an exception for her, at least. She hoped that he would someday make exceptions for others.

The sun was now fully risen, so Hermione made her way to the Great Hall for breakfast. She smiled at the sight of the early risers enjoying their meal. At the Slytherin table, Tom was sitting on a bench, a wrapped box next to him. Her smile broadened as she entered the grand room and approached him.

He did not wait, but held out the box to her wordlessly, his gaze seemingly impassive—but Hermione knew better by now, and she could detect one of his masks, especially one that he was using on her. She accepted the gift and opened it. An assortment of confections filled the box, some with rare spices that must have been purchased on the wizarding market, for she certainly had not smelled some of these at her Muggle parents’ castle.

“Thank you, Tom,” she said, selecting one, not caring about the morning hour as she popped it into her mouth.

“Happy birthday, Hermione. It has been a good year for us,” he murmured, quietly enough that only she could hear.

Hermione agreed.

* * *

In a few days, her reading finally paid off. One rainy morning, she at last located the potion recipe that she was looking for in a book about witches’ traditional herbalism. The formula for “a Moon-Potion to Prevent Conception” stared back at her from the pages. The ingredients were all at Hogwarts; she was positive of that. She had been in Slughorn’s cabinet too often not to know its contents. The potion could be made quickly, without having to sit for more than two hours, and it would work for a month, as the book’s description indicated.

This was a point of no return, she realized. _If I make this potion, I will probably go to Tom quickly. This is the only reason I have been giving myself to avoid it so far. We are not set to marry for at least another three years, possibly even four. If we take this leap, can we really keep it a secret for that long? Because if we can’t—if anyone else finds out—then I will be finished at Hogwarts._

Hermione gazed at the pages of the book. If someone did find out, it would not mean the end of her magical education—but she would have to go to Parselhall to finish her studies. And then, horribly, a memory surfaced in the back of her mind, the memory of Abraxas Malfoy permitting her to enter Hogwarts and own a wand.

_“If she fails to be declared a master by the instructors of the school, she will not be permitted to bear instruments of magic in public places….”_

For a moment she felt sick. The risk wasn’t worth it, she thought frantically—but then she remembered that she and Tom had been affectionate in more innocent ways for the latter half of the previous year, and no one had seen them. If necessary, they could hide in a room in an isolated part of the castle and leave separately just to be sure. They _certainly_ could not go to Tom’s bedroom, and he was magically barred from entering hers at the school.

Then, too, Hermione wondered if there was an actual policy against married witches attending Hogwarts. If it existed, such a rule would be based on the expectation of a couple’s marital rights—they would presumably have accommodations separate from the main girls’ and boys’ bedchambers—and the attendant risk of the young wives becoming pregnant and in greater danger from other students’ magic. But if they were taking this potion, that risk would disappear.

 _I don’t know if there is a policy like that, and I do not want to risk it,_ she thought. _If I make this, and he agrees—which he probably will—then we will just have to be careful._

There was only one ingredient that Hermione would have to get from the school cupboard, and it was not one that she would need a lot of. Slughorn would not likely notice that any was missing. She considered buying it from the apothecary’s shop in Hogsmeade, but this particular ingredient had few uses aside from this potion, and the apothecary might talk. No. She would just get a pinch from the school cabinet when she needed it, which should not be often, based on the book. She could brew more than a month’s worth and preserve it for up to half a year, with the right spells.

Taking a deep breath, she bookmarked the page, concealed the text among her parcels of books, and headed for the Potions laboratory.

In a few hours, the potion was simmering in a little cauldron over the small hearth in her bedchamber. It smelled vile and looked just as bad—sickly green—but that was to be expected, she supposed. She poured the proper dose into a goblet and directed the rest into a bottle with her wand, which she corked.

She gazed at the foul-smelling liquid in the goblet. Its scent reminded her very much of the taste of leaves, when she as a child had taken it into her head to pick some from the oak trees and chew on them. Her parents had been appalled and terrified that she would be poisoned, but she had not swallowed enough juice to cause problems. Still, this was an unpleasant thought, but she supposed that in a way, the potion _was_ poison.

Poison… that would prevent her from conceiving. Another thought entered her mind. Her own mother had not been able to have a baby until she was thirty-one years old. She had not had another one after that. As far as Hermione knew, her parents had not suffered miscarriages after her birth, and they definitely had not suffered stillbirths during her lifetime. They had just been questionably fertile… and her Norman great-grandparents on her father’s side had experienced the same problem. If this kind of thing ran in the family, then it almost seemed immoral to take a potion like this. What if it caused long-term harm? Hermione quickly opened the potions book to the page of interest and began to read everything that it said.

_“The Potion will work upon any fertile woman with or without Magic. Fear not that its effects last longer than desired, for in the Witch, the Elixir of Frigg shall counter it in the next month….”_

Hermione knew that the “Elixir of Frigg” was now known by the bland, though descriptive, name “Draught of Fertility.” This was a relief to read. She closed the book, took a deep breath, and downed the horrible-tasting potion as quickly as she could.

* * *

That evening, Tom seemed to stare at her longer than usual at the dinner table. Perhaps she was extra conscious of his gaze because of what she had on her mind, but Hermione did wonder if the potion was somehow doing something to her to make her particularly attractive to him. The book had not mentioned that, and it made far more logical sense for that to be an effect of the Draught of Fertility, but it was still possible. The main reason a witch would take this potion would be because of pure desire.

She met his dark eyes and suppressed taking a gulp of air. If she had not known better, she would wonder if he had given her a love potion. She _did_ wonder if he was reading her thoughts without her knowing—if his Legilimency skills had now advanced to the point that she could not detect his presence. That might explain the way he was looking at her better than some mysterious undocumented effect of the potion she had taken.

When the meal was finally over, he linked arms with her and muttered something about “going to study”—presumably for the benefit of Harry and anyone else observing them. She barely thought about her footfalls as they left the Great Hall, avoiding tripping purely by good fortune. They made their way up a few flights of stairs and into one of the otherwise unused rooms, too small for academic use, that they had identified in the spring. This small room held a large chair that they had magically expanded so that they both could sit in it, a table with a half-dozen candles, and a woven rug with Celtic patterns that Tom liked quite a bit.

He locked the door behind them with sharp finality just as she sent a spell to light the candles on the table. The room was windowless, so the candlelight provided the only illumination. Tom turned to her, his dark green robe flowing and gleaming just a bit in the flickering lights.

“I saw what you were thinking about,” he said without preamble.

Despite herself, despite the smile that formed on her face immediately, she shook her head in mild exasperation. “I suspected that. Please ask me in the future.”

His eyebrows narrowed and his lips curled upward on one side. “Are you quite sure that’s what you want, Hermione?”

 _I like it when you know that I want you,_ she thought, _but otherwise…._ “Yes, I’m sure. Trust me, Tom, I _won’t_ refuse it in… the right circumstances.”

He drew close to her and placed one hand on her waist. “And are you sure about this? I saw that you made that potion… but you know, I cannot take it back after it’s done.”

She breathed deeply. “I am sure. Are _you_ sure?” Sudden doubt filled her mind, irrational doubt, but she voiced it nonetheless just to be certain. “Are you certain you want _me,_ and you aren’t just going along with this because I’m… here?”

His eyes darkened. “I am not that sort of wizard. You have been ‘here’ for a year, Hermione. And I would not have gone into this room with someone else, even if you weren’t ‘here.’” He gazed at her for a moment more, then lunged forward, seizing her lips.

They crumpled to the floor, where she backed against the large chair, her legs splayed almost gracefully with him kneeling between her thighs. He cupped her face with his palms and planted hard kisses against her mouth, each one more intense than the last. The candles flickered on the table a few feet behind him.

She heaved her breath as he drew away temporarily to catch his own. “I learned something interesting over the course of the year,” she said.

“I’m sure you learned many interesting things… but what is this one?”

She chuckled. “You will like it.”

His eyes gleamed. “Tell me, then.”

She smirked teasingly. “Apparently, in the ancient magical culture of Britain and Ireland, there was a custom that consummating an engagement was a form of legally binding marriage.” She gazed pointedly at him.

“Is that so. You consented to it after all, then? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Oh, this is _not_ what you had in mind, Tom,” she teased. “You wanted to keep me at your mother’s castle and not touch me.”

“You presume much,” he murmured, leaning in to give her another hard kiss.

“I’m right, though,” she gasped.

He drew away and regarded her. “Perhaps. Perhaps I would have regretted that by now and wished that you were here, so I could have you.”

His words sent a jolt through her. “Yes,” she said. “We can have each other… and it will be our little secret. No one else will know.”

“Our secret,” he repeated in a soft but intense voice. His eyes were gleaming in the candlelight. His hands settled on her waist again, and in the next moment, they had shifted as one, twisting away from the barrier that was the chair and sprawling on the thick green rug. Tom reached for the bottom hem of her robes, noticing idly that they were the pretty green-and-gold ones that he had admired so much at the beginning of the previous year. They were already pushed up to her knees, reminding him of that night they had shared at home. He hesitated for a second, then pulled them the rest of the way up her legs, somewhat fumblingly, and with a surprising measure of sudden vulnerability.

“It’s all right,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him as he awkwardly opened the front of her robe. Those words seemed to give him the courage to continue. He reached for the clasps of his own outer robe.

The candles on the table burned down slowly, as the young inhabitants of the room cast their moving shadows in the dim warm glow.


	16. Considerations of the Noble and Ignoble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for reading and commenting on this story, especially to the frequent reviewers who have offered feedback for every, or almost every chapter—you know who you are, and you’re the best!
> 
> The good news is that I’ve outlined the next three chapters (not counting this one) in detail, because they are very plot-oriented, and that should do something for the feeling that not much is happening. I’m not sure everyone will _like_ what ends up happening over these chapters, but….
> 
> I’ve increased the rating of the story to E because there is a fairly detailed intimate scene in this chapter, and they are very underage. I probably wouldn’t give this an E if they were adults, but they’re not.

Hermione stretched lazily and planted a languid kiss on Tom’s mouth as she sprawled over his supine form. The stuffed mattress was really a transfigured cushion. This was not as pleasant as, for instance, Tom’s bed at his mother’s castle would have been, but it was an improvement over the rug—and they could turn it back into a cushion when they left this room, just in case anyone else ever went inside. Since the first occasion, they had enjoyed physical intimacy several more times. It got better. Hermione had been extremely sore after the first time, but that aftereffect was almost gone now. Tom had also found that it got better with time; he was able to slow himself down just a bit now and make it last longer. It was a learning experience for both of them right now, but he was just glad that he was learning about it with Hermione rather than with some other girl. He knew that with practice, they would someday be able to set their bed on fire—literally, as well, if they wanted to. There was a spell for flames that did not scorch or consume….

Tom pinned her against his body with a strong arm, feeling very contented indeed as he reflected on their relationship. _She was right,_ he thought, cuddling her possessively. _It’s better to have this as a private secret—for now, at least—while we both continue here at Hogwarts._ Tom honestly considered her as much his wife now as if they had spoken vows before the fat friar of Hogwarts himself, but no one _else_ knew about it. He liked that.

He was glad that she had brewed that potion. Someday they would have children, but he did not want that responsibility right now. He enjoyed Hogwarts, and that was part of the reason, but he was also hungry for other things and he wanted some of these things accomplished before they brought vulnerable children into the world. They were easy targets.

The Malfoy-Black-Lestrange rule needed to end, for one. It was offensive to Tom on a personal level that a pair of foreign-born families—and one family of blood-traitor toadies—ruled all of wizarding Britain. It was a disgrace that a country with such an ancient magical culture should essentially be colonized. Colonization was for the primitive and the weak, in his opinion. Tom supposed that he would be satisfied with the return of the old Wizengamot as the governing body—his mother was always very cagey about her political views, but he strongly suspected this was what she would like to see—but lately, he had come to develop greater ambitions than a mere restoration of the status quo of eighty years ago. No, something had gone terribly wrong _six hundred_ years earlier, and _that_ was what Tom wanted fixed. None of this would have happened if the magical line of Morgana and Mordred had ruled England.

 _Mordred was a bastard, and the offspring of an incestuous coupling,_ Tom thought, _but he was still of royal blood. Perhaps people would not care about those things after all this time._

He also was determined to discover the truth about Salazar Slytherin’s reputed chamber in Hogwarts and the great serpent that perhaps resided there. Supposedly Slytherin had left behind his monster to “cleanse the school,” and the common interpretation was that this meant “purge the school of Mudbloods,” but Tom wondered if something had been lost over the years, once the man was no longer there to speak for himself. Perhaps Slytherin had simply meant to protect the school from any threat. Godric Gryffindor had welcomed foreign invaders with open arms, and been removed from his own lordship and supplanted by said invaders. If protecting the school from threats was what Slytherin actually intended, he was wise, Tom thought—and he was increasingly able to convince himself that this was indeed what Slytherin had intended.

He wondered if, perhaps, Slytherin had had Seer gifts and had foreseen the Norman invasion. He had left Hogwarts only about a decade before the invaders had come. This also made sense to Tom. It all fit, he thought, so even in the absence of concrete evidence, he became more unalterably convinced of his theory the more he thought about it.

And it meant that with his bloodline from both Morgana le Fay and Salazar Slytherin, Tom was surely a “chosen one” of sorts to correct what had gone so badly wrong.

Hermione squirmed in Tom’s arms, apparently wanting to sit up. He released her. She moved to a sitting position and reached for her robes.

“You are beautiful when you’ve just been ravished,” he remarked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

She gave him a level stare, intending to appear disapproving, but he could see the laugh lines trying to make their appearances on her face as well.

“We should return to the common room,” she said, casting charms to clean herself. He sighed but acknowledged the truth of what she said. They would be missed if they stayed here much longer, and people would start to speculate— _rightly,_ he thought. It would be very inconvenient if the Malfoy-supporting families or the Malfoys themselves got wind of their intimate activities.

* * *

The following day, Hermione dressed herself and went into the Slytherin common room as usual, when she noticed to her surprise that Professor Slughorn was there and Harry was standing next to him. Tom was seated nearby, shooting Harry looks of dislike, but when Hermione appeared in the threshold, his face softened.

“Ah, there you are, Lady Hermione,” Slughorn boomed. “I have something very important to tell you about your studies.”

For a second, Hermione panicked. Had someone told the professor what she and Tom were doing? Was she going to be made to go home? Then she realized that Harry had no reason to be involved in any such decision, nor to hear it. It would be a private discussion involving her, Tom, and probably their parents. This was something else, then.

“I have decided that you and young Master Potter here should be moved into the intermediate-level Potions and Alchemy class,” Slughorn declared, beaming. “The talent between the two of you is astonishing.”

Hermione immediately glanced at Tom. He was jealous. She and Harry were advancing in a subject after one year and a couple of months of study. Tom had done that for Arithmancy and Charms and Curses, moving up after the intermission for Yule and Christmas last year, but for the rest of his subjects—including Potions—he had advanced to the intermediate level after two years of study. There were two levels of “novitiate” or beginner schooling, one for the very first year of Hogwarts and one that typically lasted four months (for the brightest witches and wizards) to two years, until they advanced to the intermediate level. In the previous year, she and Harry had been in that first level, whereas Tom had been either in the second level or in the intermediate class, depending on the subject.

Now she and Harry would be in the same Potions group with him, for however long that lasted. Tom would certainly advance to the final level, the mastery class, for all the magical subjects in his fourth year. Bright witches and wizards usually did, while others remained at an intermediate level through four or often even five years at Hogwarts. But through next spring, they would have Potions and Alchemy together.

“Thank you, Professor,” she said at once, putting gratitude into her words. “I cannot wait.”

“Lady Hermione, you will also advance to the intermediate level in Arithmancy and Ancient Languages,” Slughorn continued. Tom smiled at this, as it meant that she would be taught alongside him in three subjects, but his smile was still tight with jealousy and resentment.

“And I have news for Lord Thomas as well,” he said, turning to Tom, who promptly rose to his feet. “Your aptitude for wandwork is equally astonishing. You are close to mastery as it is, so you shall advance to the mastery class in Charms and Curses. This is the first time since the founding of Hogwarts that a pupil in his third year of tutoring has been placed in the mastery class for any subject.”

The jealousy had fled Tom’s face at this announcement. He bowed curtly to Slughorn, delighted. “Thank you, Professor,” he said, echoing Hermione. Real pleasure spread across his handsome features.

Slughorn turned to Hermione and Harry, the latter of whom was looking a little put out now that he had only been advanced in one subject. “The first, but probably not the last,” he said pointedly to Hermione and Harry.

Tom’s gaze tightened again. Slughorn noticed, and he said at once, “I would not be surprised, Lord Thomas, if you advance in other subjects after Yule and Christmas. The three of you are certainly hoarding a disproportionate amount of magical talent! Not that there is anything wrong with that.” He winked at them and ambled away through the door to the common room.

Hermione turned to Harry. “This means that we won’t have to be in Potions with Adelaide Lestrange anymore, of course.” Adelaide had been among the stragglers in Potions and Alchemy, those who did not go to the intermediate class even after a full two years of education. This had meant that so far this autumn, she and Harry had been in Slughorn’s classroom with her. It was not a pleasant experience. Harry chuckled, and Tom cracked a smile as well.

The subject of their discussion then emerged from the doorway to the girls’ bedchambers, followed by the majority of her pack of followers.

“I do not want to see you either, you filthy Mudblood,” she snarled.

“Do you have _nothing_ else to say?” Tom scoffed, rolling his eyes skyward.

The girl drew her wand. “Not to the likes of any of you. Nothing else about you matters. No matter how _brilliant_ you all may be, no matter how much magical talent you hoard, you are all dirty-blooded and unimportant. You will _never_ rule wizarding Britain. Draco will, and I will be by his side. You will bend your knees and swear fealty to us.” She stormed through the common room.

Tom was standing by, staring at her in seething outrage. “Just you wait,” he muttered.

* * *

In Potions that day, Hermione was unsurprised when Tom insisted that she and Harry switch partners. He paired himself with her possessively, leaving Harry to work with his own former Potions partner, Marcus Flint. Flint looked somewhat put out about having to work with a common-born half-blood, but he rallied himself well enough. Hermione hoped he would not give Harry a hard time. She had learned over the past couple of months that he was indeed engaged to Daphne Greengrass, and moreover, that both of them were pleased about it. That was a relief to Hermione, who considered Daphne something approximating a friend, and who had lately had her eyes opened to the importance of liking and respecting one’s partner in life.

She turned to Tom, who was perusing the instructions in the Potions textbook for Polyjuice Potion. It was quite advanced, but Hermione felt certain that she could make it. She got up, walked over to Slughorn’s ingredients cabinet, and reached into the earthenware jar that she knew contained boomslang skin. When she returned to the table, Tom was staring at the ingredient, as if he disapproved.

“That comes from a snake,” he said.

“Yes, but it was shed. The snake didn’t die,” Hermione said, adding the snake skin to the cauldron.

He managed a tight smile. “I would feel like a cannibal to consume something containing any part of a snake.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Why?” she inquired. “You speak the language of snakes. You are not part snake yourself.”

He continued to bear that forced smile. “Of course not, but I feel kinship with them. And in any case, I have no desire to change my outward identity by drinking this potion, whenever it is ready. I am quite proud of my identity and heritage.”

He was acting quite odd, which Hermione attributed to residual jealousy over her own apparently superior Potions skills. She continued making the potion until it had to be covered for the day. They would add more ingredients next time.

Once immediately outside Slughorn’s laboratory, Tom grabbed Marcus Flint by the elbow and stopped in the hall. Hermione paused, standing near him and waiting. Harry paused as well. Tom gave her a smile.

“It is quite all right,” he said. “You need not wait for me.”

A couple of other young wizards, Rob Wilkes and Edgar Fawley, were approaching. They joined Tom and Flint, immediately giving unwelcoming looks to Hermione and especially Harry. In a moment, Cormac Avery and Theodore Nott joined them.

Tom’s smile was a bit too broad. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Are these your friends, my lord?” she inquired.

Her startling formality took Tom aback. She had never called him that, as far as he could remember; in public, she referred to him as “Lord Thomas” or just “Thomas.” The message that she sent was that she disapproved of being kept out of anything he was doing that involved alliances.

“They are, _my lady,”_ he said, trying not to sound blatantly fake before the other young wizards.

“Then should I not be a part of the conversation? And Potter, since he is guarding me?” she asked sweetly.

Harry stood beside her, taking in the proceedings and gazing very suspiciously at Tom and the other Slytherins. He did assume a guardian’s pose as he moved in front of her to put himself between her and the Slytherin boys—including Tom.

Tom noticed, and his eyebrows subtly narrowed. “We should not speak of sensitive matters in the halls of Hogwarts,” he said abruptly. He took Hermione’s arm and gave her a pointed look as he steered her away from everyone else. They walked apart from the group. The five pureblood boys followed, leaving Harry standing in the hallway. He picked up his pace and trailed at the end of the group, his gaze never leaving Hermione’s back.

* * *

“I have a right to know about your political alliances and plans,” Hermione said firmly that afternoon before dinner, when they were alone. “I am not a Muggle noblewoman, concerned mainly with being the lady of a castle, having children, and making matches for them. Whatever it is that you are talking about with these boys, I deserve to know.”

Tom sighed. “You do,” he agreed, “and truly, Hermione, it isn’t that much—yet. I have been trying to get leads on the facts about Slytherin’s chamber that supposedly exists in the school. My mother has put hexes on all the books in the family library that might contain that information, so I thought that perhaps these boys from old families might know something about it.”

Hermione eyed him. “You have mentioned this occasionally to me,” she said. “I don’t quite understand what you hope to achieve with it if it does exist, though.”

Tom considered what to say. Although he had indeed told her of the legend of the Chamber, he had never mentioned the rest of the legend. He was not sure what she would think about it. But if it did exist, and he found it, then she would find out anyway.

He summoned his courage. “It is not just a chamber,” he finally said. “The legend also says that Slytherin left a beast in it that only he could control, which would imply—”

“A great serpent,” Hermione finished, her eyes wide. Tom could almost see her mind at work as she reached her next conclusion. “A _basilisk?_ Tom! Basilisks are fast, and their venom has only one antidote, and their very gaze is instantly fatal! What are you _thinking?”_

“If I found the Chamber, I would enter it with my eyes closed and I would speak commands in Parseltongue to subdue the snake,” he said. “I am the blood of Slytherin. I could control it too. It would be all right.”

“Why would he have left such a thing in a school anyway?” she exclaimed.

“The legend says that he did it to protect the school from… Muggle-borns,” he said reluctantly. Hermione’s face fell, and he continued hurriedly, “But what is the source for that information? Families like the Malfoys. _I_ think that Slytherin must have been a Seer,” he explained. “He resigned from Hogwarts not long before the Normans came. I think he saw what was coming and left it there for his heir.”

Hermione was staring at Tom in dismay. “I have two grandparents, one on each side of my family, who were of that race. Whether the truth lies in the legend or your own theory, if this monster exists, I am still a target for it.”

“It is a beast. As a serpent, what would the blood status of human wizards be to it? And the first basilisk was bred by Herpo in ancient Greece, so what would it care about the blood of someone in England? It’s an animal. It would have no political opinions of its own and would do what I told it to do.”

“And what exactly _would_ you tell it to do?” she challenged. “What would you use this hypothetical lethal monster to _do,_ Tom?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I would not feed Draco Malfoy to it, if that’s what you are worried about,” he said. “But if it exists, then it’s mine, and I should have command of it.”

Hermione shook her head. “Tom, you need to be careful. You say that you can go into this chamber and command this snake, but if it is real, you _don’t know that._ What if it was Slytherin’s familiar and takes orders from no other wizard, even his own blood?”

Tom had no reply to that.

“I do not think you should pursue this,” she said. She touched his chest gently. “It could end in tragedy, and even if it doesn’t, you cannot actually use this basilisk—if a basilisk there is—for anything good. A creature like that is a weapon, and we are not at war.”

 _Yet,_ Tom thought darkly. But he did have to admit, even to himself, that she was right for the time being. He could not use a basilisk at this time of his life. Someday, though…. He placed one of his hands over the hand of hers that rested on his chest, gripping it warmly and bringing a smile to her face. They stood silently like that for a moment, until he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently.

“It’s time for dinner,” he said.

* * *

That evening, Tom and Hermione met in the hallway, making sure not to be seen leaving the Slytherin common room together, and escaped to their little private room. Hermione closed the door behind them and Tom locked it with a spell as Hermione almost immediately began to strip off her outer robe. It fell from her shoulders in a ripple of heavy silk. She set it down carefully on the chair, piling her other clothing on top of it as she and Tom both disrobed. They transfigured the cushion into “their” mattress and quickly tumbled into each other’s heated embrace upon it.

Hermione sprawled on her back, baring her body unabashedly to him. She saw no reason to feel shame before him, after all. His eyes gleamed momentarily, and in the next moment, he was atop her, kissing her exposed breasts as his nimble fingers drifted down her body. She involuntarily closed her legs as he reached her juncture, but he gave her a dark smirk and pulled them open again. He planted a heavy kiss on the side of her neck, one that might leave a mark that they would have to heal before they left this room, and then he straddled her and pushed into her. There was no pain at all for her this time, she observed—but she could not focus on that detail for too long.

They fell into the almost ritualistic pattern of motions. Their breaths grew deep and rapid, and their skin became increasingly heated. Had it not been autumn, or had they not been in such a vast castle that was difficult to keep warm in cool times even for master witches and wizards, they would have grown slick with sweat, but instead it evaporated at once, thickening the air immediately around them. Hermione had her release first, digging her fingernails into his back, prompting him to gasp out in surprise—but not displeasure. Another thrust—and then he came for her. He breathed deeply and relaxed on her, their mutual warmth keeping them comfortable despite their nudity in the drafty castle.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, their breaths and heartbeats returning to normal. After they had lapsed into lazy relaxation, Hermione hugged him around the waist, the gesture somehow completely innocent despite the circumstances. “Are you not glad after all that your mother chose me for you?” she teased.

He smirked sideways. _“I_ chose you. If I had not, we would be in our separate chambers in the Slytherin dormitories, ice cold and wretched as most noble couples.”

Hermione could not find any pleasure in the thought of other aristocratic couples’ icy resigned discontent, so she focused on the rest of his comment. “Would you have chosen me if, somehow, I had been allowed into Hogwarts as an unattached Muggle-born witch and probably been sorted into a different House? Would you have noticed me at all?”

He considered it. “I think I would have. You still would have been exceptional at magic, and you would have been advanced in Potions, Arithmancy, and Runes—since that is what happened. I would have noticed you.” He kissed the side of her cheek and rose off her slowly. “I marked in my diary the date that we consummated our betrothal. As far as I am concerned, and by ancient magical custom, that is our marriage date.”

Hermione smiled as she reached for her robes. “We’ll have to have one that is official for everyone else, of course.”

“Of course.” Tom pulled his robes on and tied his belt. He noticed the mark that was starting to form on Hermione’s neck and drew his wand. “Here,” he said. “I should heal that.”

She felt the rush of magic over her skin as the bruise faded.

Tom regarded her contemplatively for a moment, thinking of what they had just been discussing. _Ancient magical custom…._ Something suddenly occurred to him, something incredibly important, something that he _had_ to find out.

“Hermione,” he said excitedly, “I just realized—the ancient custom is that consummating a betrothal counts as marriage.” He began speaking rapidly as his thoughts whirled and one conclusion after another came to him. “I read last year that, before Merlin got his claws into Arthur, he—Arthur—went to the other children of Igraine and suggested uniting the lines. Morgana was a witch and would have known the old customs. That means that if he and Morgana entered an engagement, _Mordred was legitimate.”_

Hermione was staring at Tom with growing disconcert as he bubbled over with this revelation. “Tom,” she said, trying to calm him, “that is very interesting, to be sure, but—”

“I have to find out if they were,” he said almost to himself. “I _have_ to read those books! Mother should not keep them from me. It’s wrong of her. I could have a great destiny—”

“Tom,” Hermione said again, “that may be true about the ancient ritual, but they were half-siblings. That fact annuls any ‘marriage’ that they may have had.”

“People thought differently in the past,” he said arrogantly. “If they considered it valid then, then the power of that conviction is what made it valid. We are talking about a magical rite. Intent is everything in magic.”

Hermione stared at him, not liking the gleam in his eyes at all. “Tom, please calm yourself. This is fascinating knowledge, but you would be in terrible danger if you claimed to be an heir to a throne. The Malfoys would consider it treason even to say it. You are not yet fifteen years old, Tom, and a pupil at Hogwarts! We can’t think of such things now. We have to think about achieving mastery of magic, and then we are going to have a public wedding, and start a family, and someday you will be lord of Hangleton.”

“I want more than that,” he whispered. “You heard that bint Adelaide Lestrange this morning. If nothing changes, we will be swearing an oath to Draco Malfoy and _her._ I can’t bear that idea.”

She lowered her voice, though there was no one else to hear. “We can work to restore the Wizengamot. That is a goal we can achieve, I think. But that’s dangerous enough, and we _should not_ speak of these things in public.” A dark suspicion crossed Hermione’s mind. “If you talk about ideas like this with your friends, _please_ be careful.”

He considered her words carefully and nodded in agreement. What he was not going to tell her was that he had no intention of settling for small things.

That night, once he was back in his own private bedchamber in Slytherin House, he brought out the prototype of the seal he was going to make for his circle of friends. The raven at the center of the Celtic knotwork and Ouroboros looked bare and bald. Tom drew the crown atop its head once again.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

The grand table at Malfoy Manor was bedighted for Hallowe’en. The assembled witches and wizards feasted on traditional foods and drank spiced cider, ale, and wine, toasting each other increasingly boisterously as the night wore on. Abraxas Malfoy supported his father, the high lord of all wizarding Britain, for the latter had only had his secret tonic just before the feast and he still had not recovered fully from the acute aftereffects.

Every adult member of the Malfoy, Lestrange, and Black families—sans the disowned Sirius Black—was present at the head table. Regulus, Andromeda, and Dora were visibly less pleased than the rest of the guests at the revelry and growing intoxication of most of their companions, but they were attempting to rally themselves. The high families had several guests. Amycus and Alecto Carrow, sworn to the Lestrange family, also sat there, along with Caractacus Burke. _He_ looked very pleased indeed.

Bellatrix Lestrange raised her goblet high in the air. “To my noble daughter and the heir of House Malfoy, though they are absent from this banquet. May their blood be ever pure!”

Lucius Malfoy smiled in approval.

“Lady Adelaide and Lord Draco!” several fellow revelers joined in, sloshing wine and cider all over the table.

“To the death of the filthy in our midst!” bawled Bellatrix, raising her goblet for a second toast. This one was joined by Burke, and rather eagerly, Regulus and his family observed.

The bangs and thumps ceased as Armand Malfoy rose, his color at last restored, and began to speak.

“My friends and subjects,” he said, “we have among us tonight a pair of very special guests. Lord Amycus and Lady Alecto Carrow swore fealty to my kinsman by marriage, Lord Lestrange, believing that the family they had formerly served was extinct.” His thin lips spread into a smile, but the outlines of his teeth were visible through his skin. “They now know that this is not true, that Lady Merope Riddle lives. Her chief vassal, Severus Snape, sought to recall them to Castle Gaunt—or Parselhall, as the lady calls it now, forsaking her own family name.”

Bellatrix let out a hiss of disgust.

“Since that lady bore a half-blood son and betrothed him to a Mudblood, exploiting a law while defying the spirit of a Wizards’ Council decision in the most blatant of ways, the Carrows now choose freely to renew their vow of fealty to the Lestrange family.”

The assembled guests burst into a roar of approval and glee, sans the three youngest Blacks, though they too applauded, as they must.

“They do this with the full knowledge of the living Gaunt heirs and their disgrace, and hereby renounce all oaths to that family, as it has dishonored itself and is unworthy of loyalty—so long as the half-blood and Mudblood live,” he added evilly.

The Carrows rose and bent their knees before Rodolphus Lestrange, repeating the oath of fealty to him. Bellatrix smiled gleefully at the proceedings.

After this, the guests resumed their conversations. Caractacus Burke smirked and drew an object out of his belt pouch to show to the wizard seated next to him, who happened to be Regulus Black himself.

“This is the locket of Salazar Slytherin,” he said conspiratorially, dangling it before Regulus. “I bought it off ‘Lady’ Riddle when she was heavy with child.”

Regulus gazed coolly at the locket. “That is very interesting and undoubtedly valuable,” he said.

Burke put it back into the pouch. “It is. I’m very proud of owning it. Did you catch what his lordship said about ‘so long as the half-blood and Mudblood live’?”

“Everyone did.”

Burke nodded and took a long draught of ale. “Their lordships would like me to marry the blood-traitor witch, and I might get used to the idea in time… but I would want some compensation for it.”

“You would be the consort of a lady ruling a valuable and ancient fief,” Regulus said.

“Indeed—consort. That’s the problem, my lord. It just doesn’t seem right that someone who never dishonored his blood, like me, should be subject to someone like her. I’d want more before I agree to this, and so does my lord, Arcturus Black. He also doesn’t think that the castle can be stormed, so the lady could refuse an alliance anyway and there would be nothing that could be done about it. Wizarding law doesn’t give nobles the power to force other nobles to marry anyone.” He lowered his voice. “As for the half-blood and his Mudblood, I don’t see the need to kill the boy, with all due respect to his high lordship. I hear that the half-blood is very proud of being a descendant of Slytherin. I suppose it’s all he has that he can find pride in. Let him teach at Hogwarts, since he has such regard for a damned schoolmaster.”

Regulus considered what Burke was telling him, making mental note of it in his memory.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

“My friends,” Tom began, his tones formal and ceremonial, “I have invited you here tonight to form an alliance, a secret order amongst ourselves. I have chosen you five because you have shown respect and loyalty to the ancient magical culture of our native land.”

Flint, Fawley, Avery, Wilkes, and Nott gazed back at Tom in a semicircle, their eyes radiating agreement.

“I have created seals for all of us to carry in our belt pouches,” he said. He held up his own. “They bear an example of the craft of our ancestors, a serpent consuming itself to symbolize eternity—the eternal continuance of our people—and a crowned raven, because as you know, I am the last descendant of the Wizard-King in Exile.” He removed the rest of the seals and held them in the palm of his hand. “These seals will grow heated when I have an important message to send, such as a summons. The message will be imprinted in invisible runes on the seal. When the seal is hot, you may press it into wax and instead of the symbol—which is what will appear when I am not activating the charm—the runic message will appear in the wax.” He passed out the seals to his followers.

The boys turned the objects over in their hands, regarding them. Tom returned to the middle of the semicircle and regarded each wizard in turn. “I see that I have your loyalty in mind,” he said, projecting confidence—and, he noted, visibly surprising Nott and Wilkes that he had become so good at Legilimency. “I now ask for your loyalty in words. We are people of magic, and both thought and word are power for us.”

Each boy knelt and swore an oath of loyalty to Tom. They rose, and he regarded them with a faint smile. “Although it is Samhain, the six of us met as a group for the first time on the first of May, earlier this year. It was informal, but in recognition of that, you are now my Lords of Beltane.” He raised his wand. “We stand on our ancient rights and will never kneel to the unworthy.”

Nott and Wilkes exchanged glances, apparently deciding something between themselves nonverbally. Nott gulped and spoke up. “My lord, there is something I wish to understand better.”

Tom regarded Nott tolerantly.

“Your betrothed… she is of invader descent, in part, as well as being a Mudblood.”

Tom interrupted at once. “You will not speak of her by that word.”

“I beg your pardon, your lordship. But what of her? I mean… I understand that your lady mother and her parents made the plans… we all have to honor our families’ wishes, of course… but your lordship spends a lot of time with her. I almost expected her to be here. Are your _real_ heirs actually going to be….”

Tom was glaring stonily at the boy. “Do not ever suggest again that I would betray her. She is part Norman, it is true, but she is also part English. The wizarding ancestors from whom she inherited magic are undoubtedly in the English lines, since the invaders destroyed the records of the English lords they displaced, putting their own family histories in their stead.”

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me.”

“I forgive you. Do not let it happen again.”

After the meeting broke up, Tom considered Nott’s words. His Lords would need to learn their place, and never speak of Hermione disrespectfully… but perhaps there was a grain of wisdom in Nott’s remarks. He had been discreet about their intimacies, but it was clearly apparent to his schoolmates that he truly liked and was attracted to Hermione. That was unusual for noble lordlings, and they had noticed. It would not do to flaunt his private emotions for her to outsiders. That was a vulnerability. They could think that he had to marry a witch who was not of pure wizarding or pure English stock because his mother had arranged it. That was something they could understand. It was not a betrayal of the cause. They did not need to know that he _wanted_ to be with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re not the Knights of Walpurgis here. :D
> 
> And if this chapter seems darkly foreboding as hell, it should.


	17. Friends of the Founders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I am sorry for the day's delay in posting this. I posted a mega-chapter to my other AU on Friday evening, which may be the last one for that story for a long time... and then I promptly woke up Saturday feeling like crap on a stick. Some sort of head cold. I honestly don't know if anything in this chapter is any good, but I wanted to get it up nonetheless. Thank you so much, as always, for your steady support of this fic!

Hermione snuggled closer to Tom as she sat next to him. They were in their secret room, curled up together and fully dressed—although their robes were still on them but loosely, after a satisfying romp on the transfigured mattress.

 _We really ought to be back in the common room,_ Hermione thought, _but I would have been… hungry… without this._ It was true; ever since they had become intimate, it seemed that they needed to be intimate more and more. Hermione was starting to worry that someone would catch on, but so far, no one seemed to have noticed.

 _Except possibly Harry,_ she thought with some slight disquiet. _He has given Tom studying looks when we return to the common room from this and he is there. He must realize that, at a minimum, we are affectionate in private. It’s fortunate that he is a friend. Malfoy and Lestrange have not noticed, at least. That would be bad._

She thought about what might happen if either of those two learned of her activities with Tom. Malfoy, perhaps, might not care—at least, of his own accord. He regarded Hermione with contempt, but he did not make a special point of tormenting her. But for Adelaide Lestrange, it was much more than contempt; it was loathing, and it was personal. She knew that Hermione had cost her her first betrothal and hurt her reputation among Slytherins. She was not especially happy with Malfoy, either, so she was having to content herself with the vision of Tom and Hermione kneeling down before her. Hermione knew without a doubt that if _she_ found out about Hermione’s intimacy with Tom, she would not hesitate to destroy Hermione over it.

Hermione could see it clearly. Since it was not shocking that she was sleeping with her fiancé, and since the “solution” would merely be early marriage, Adelaide would say that any girl who did that might have done more. She might make insinuations about Harry Potter or even his friend Neville. Adelaide was a vindictive person—like her mother, apparently—and Hermione realized that she needed to be quite careful.

She turned to Tom. “We should get ourselves in order and return to the common room now,” she urged him gently. He sighed in dissatisfaction but did not argue the point.

Once they were back in the common room, a cluster of five boys approached Tom. They did not surround him, Hermione observed, but rather hovered near him. It was almost as if they were… waiting for her to move away from him. She quickly glanced at them. Flint, Fawley, Avery, Nott, and Wilkes—the same five whom she saw around him increasingly frequently. His gaze darted between the boys and Hermione, as if he were deciding in what direction to go.

She linked her arm with his and smiled at him. “I need to speak with you,” she said. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue, because he saw right through it— _and he probably does, as a Legilimens,_ she thought—but he let her lead him into a private nook by a window.

“Are you still meeting with those boys?” she asked quietly.

He met her eyes with his own in a defiant stare. “I am. I hope it’s not a problem for you that I am making allies.”

His sharp tone of voice took her aback. “Of course not,” she said. “We agreed that we should do it—but that’s the issue, Tom. _We_ should do it. I have not been to any of these meetings. If you are the leader, then why are you excluding me?”

Tom hesitated. “It’s a group for wizards,” he said. “None of the boys have brought in sisters or fiancées.”

Hermione stared at him. “Muggles would exclude women, but I didn’t think….”

“Hermione, you must have noticed that, even though witches can do all manner of things in our world that they aren’t allowed to do in the Muggle world, there are still some… traditions. You understood when I couldn’t magically attack Lestrange. This is another one. The boys would question why I involved you in an order for wizards.”

 _“Order?”_ she exclaimed. “This group is now an ‘order’? Tom, what do you discuss? That is all I want to know, what goes on.”

“I can’t tell you here.”

She glanced around. Although she had not raised her voice that much, she wanted to be certain that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation—and it did not appear that anyone was. “Very well. You need to tell me the next time we’re alone, though.”

* * *

Hermione fretted into the night about Tom. All of a sudden, after they were so close, it seemed that they were drifting apart again—or, rather, that Tom was pulling away from her. It made her anxious. She would still “have” him, but after the happy experiences with true closeness to him, she did not want to lose that closeness either. _If we had remained as we were at the beginning of last autumn, I would not have known any different,_ she thought, trying to go to sleep. _I would have assumed it was simply how things were and that it was not my part to be involved in any of his doings. –For a while, at least. Being around witches in this sphere of society would have changed my views anyway. But it did not happen that way—we did become close—and I can tell the difference. He has been cagey and evasive about these interests of his, but he has not been sharp with me about it._

What was he doing? What was he talking about with these boys? Hermione had a bad feeling that she knew. Tom himself had said that Slytherin’s chamber was part of the discussions, and Hermione had not forgotten Tom’s effusive reaction to his epiphany about King Arthur’s son. She did not think he had any business looking for a killer beast in the school. That was the immediate danger: that this alleged chamber did exist, that it did contain a basilisk, and that Tom found it and something unthinkable happened. Hermione shuddered in dread at the idea that she would not even allow her mind to put into words.

The thought occurred to her that he might indeed survive the first encounter, tame the creature, and then use it against his “enemies,” but she would not entertain that notion either. Tom was not like _that,_ she assured herself. Not her Tom. He had strong feelings of loyalty, love, and—yes—hate, but he would not actually do something like _that._

And then there was the other heritage-related obsession that he had. If the Chamber of Slytherin was potentially dangerous to his life immediately, then talking about a restoration of a line from six centuries ago was dangerous to his life in a longer term—the term to conduct a treason trial, perhaps, if the wrong people found out that he was discussing such a thing. Surely he had identified boys who were not allied with the Malfoys or the Wizards’ Council…. _He is a Legilimens now,_ she thought, suddenly reassured. _He would have checked them first. He may not be a master Legilimens, but he’s certainly good enough to detect the attempts of young wizards his own age to hide something crucial._ That made Hermione feel better about this. In time, this particular obsession would surely diminish, as he developed a better idea of what was actually possible political change. _He has not been among the nobles that long even now,_ she told herself with not a small degree of smugness. _And for most of that time, he has been at Hogwarts, or alone with me on the castle grounds, rather than consulting with his mother or Lord Severus. He will learn more about it in time._

Reassured at least on that matter, Hermione soon gained the sleep she sought.

* * *

Hermione stepped into the Slytherin common room the next morning and found herself in the middle of an icy dispute, cold and threatening, Slytherin-style. Daphne Greengrass was glaring at Draco Malfoy as if she wanted to murder him. She pointed her wand directly at his face, and the venom in her eyes was more poisonous than Hermione had ever seen in the young witch. Malfoy was backed against a wall, trembling faintly, but attempting to put on a show of defiance. Adelaide Lestrange was ready to attack Daphne, and her pack of girls looked to follow her in that action, but behind Daphne stood her new fiancé, Marcus Flint, along with Edgar Fawley. Silently, Tom stood in a shadowy corner, observing the proceedings with a keen eye.

“Do you think I didn’t see you?” Daphne hissed, her voice low and menacing. The tip of her wand danced dangerously close to Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy swallowed. Hermione observed the lump bob in his throat. “I admit to nothing, Greengrass—”

“That’s _Lady Daphne_ to you!”

“Do you know who I am?” Malfoy sneered, mustering what passed for his courage.

“Do I know who you are?” she mocked. “Here are the facts, Malfoy—and no, I shall not dignify _you_ with a title. We aren’t _Muggles_ here. We don’t observe the filthy Muggle _droit de seigneur,_ whatever you Normans may want to do—”

Hermione blanched at that. That allegation was absolutely false, at least as it related to the town her parents ruled— _and_ the Norman family whose daughter became her paternal grandmother. However, Tom’s gaze sharpened and flitted to Daphne with interest.

“I have never touched your sister,” Malfoy snarled.

“You want to,” Daphne growled, the menace seeping from her voice into the whole room. “I’ve seen the way you stare at her. Let us make something crystal clear, Malfoy—you will _not_ behave like a Muggle swine lordling _here._ Witches have _power.”_

“How _dare_ you?” Adelaide Lestrange cut in, outrage rumbling through her words. She drew her wand and pointed it at Daphne’s furious face. “How dare you speak to one of your betters in such a way! Swine? The only pig I see is a sow of a girl who threatens her future lord!”

Daphne scoffed at the wand that was directed at her. “Have you no self-respect at all? Or is this another Muggle noble custom that your kind have adopted? Your betrothed is looking at other women, because he hates you—”

 _“Crucio!”_ the girl bawled.

Daphne crashed to the floor, her palms slapping against the stone surface as she fell. She twitched once, and it did not appear that the torture curse would hurt her for very long—but Hermione was already jumping into the fray.

 _Reducto!_ she cast silently at Adelaide. The element of surprise gave her the advantage. The jet of light struck Adelaide and blasted her across the room, ending her torture of Daphne and sending her careening into the wall. She hit with a thud and a crack, slumping down to the floor with a groan.

Draco Malfoy stared at Hermione in outrage. He drew his wand, ready to curse her, when Tom finally stepped forward. “Do not do it, Malfoy,” he warned. He pointed his own wand between Malfoy’s eyes. “Your fiancée had that coming.”

“Your Mudblood had no right to attack her—”

“She has every right to defend her friend from a curse. As Lady Daphne said, your family have _not_ put it into law that high wizarding lords may do anything they please, let alone high lords’ heirs and heiresses.”

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to challenge Tom, but he did not; evidently Tom knew what he was talking about. He shot Hermione a glare of unadulterated hate as he grudgingly helped Adelaide Lestrange up.

“You need to go to the Healer,” he said brusquely. She was looking pale and faint. Hermione felt a momentary flash of guilt; had the impact fractured Adelaide’s skull?

 _She was torturing Daphne,_ Hermione reminded herself. She went over to Daphne, who was getting to her feet, and extended her a hand.

“Thank you,” the girl muttered.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Tom said to Daphne, pulling Hermione aside. She wondered what he was doing, but she did not have to wonder long. As soon as they were out of the hearing of the remaining Slytherins, he turned to her with alarm and disapproval in his eyes. “Why did you do that?” he asked her quietly.

Hermione gazed at him in confusion. “You said it yourself: I was defending a friend.”

“I said that to shut up Malfoy. This didn’t involve you, but now it does. She’ll try to take revenge on you.”

“How does it not involve me, at least indirectly? She was attacking Daphne, who is engaged to Flint, who is one of your little friends.”

Tom sighed and rubbed his temples. “Hermione, I really don’t think you should have done that.”

“Well, I did,” she said curtly. “I’m not afraid of Adelaide Lestrange. I defeated her once in a duel when I hardly knew any magic. I have advanced in my studies faster than she has. I appreciate the fact that you are so protective of me, but as Daphne herself was saying, witches have power.”

Tom lowered his voice. “The problem is that you are part Norman.”

“The _problem?_ How is that a problem? Do I not have the right to object to bad behavior on the part of Norman wizards?”

Tom looked flustered and frustrated. He could not seem to articulate what troubled him. Hermione sighed and turned away. “Tom, not everyone with Norman blood is villainous.”

“Can we agree that the Malfoys and Lestranges are?” he asked quietly.

“We can agree on that.” She tentatively offered her arm to him. He linked his with hers and escorted her possessively across the common room. Daphne, Marcus Flint, and Edgar Fawley joined them a few steps behind and followed them.

They had reached the door when a familiar voice called out, “What’s going on? Did I miss something?”

Tom turned around and saw Harry Potter standing in the boys’ dormitory threshold, staring at the two clusters of people—Adelaide’s friends, and the small group around Hermione and Tom. Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, you did, Potter,” he said shortly. Without another word, he opened the door and exited the room.

* * *

The Slytherin table in the Great Hall was a war zone over which an uneasy truce presided. The House had clearly split into two sides, each one staking out one end of the table. A gap separated the two groups. On one end sat Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, the Rosier son and daughter, Pansy Parkinson, and the older students in their fourth year and up who were almost all supporting that side. On the other side sat Tom, Hermione, Harry, Avery, Wilkes, Flint, Nott, Fawley, Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bulstrode, and Daphne’s sister Astoria.

Hermione felt nervous about the whole situation. It seemed very much to her that, while Tom’s side—and hers—might have a clear advantage in magical talent, the Malfoy-Lestrange side held all the political power. She still did not see why Tom would regard Norman blood as a particular problem, but she did see his point now about retaliation from Lestrange and Malfoy. What direction that might take, she could not guess.

She and Tom had explained to Harry, in low voices, what had transpired in the common room while he was getting dressed. He had sat on the bench over his breakfast and considered for a moment.

“We should consider allying with like-minded people in other Houses,” he finally said, his voice also low and conspiratorial. “Longbottom, Luna Lovegood… and believe it or not, Riddle, even this new Weasley—”

Tom’s face had grown pinched at the mention of that name. “I am sure the new Weasley is just like the others,” he said contemptuously.

“I really don’t think she is,” he objected. “Luna introduced me to her, and she seems different—more ambitious than most of the others.”

Tom scoffed. “It would be hard for her not to be. I have heard that they live in one room and sleep on straw.”

“They don’t sleep on straw,” he said, to Tom’s scornful gaze. “But the reason I mention her is that we—and a couple of people from Hufflepuff—are thinking about forming an alliance across all the Houses, and calling ourselves ‘Friends of the Founders.’ Nev—Longbottom and I have been discussing it… our goal would be for Hogwarts to regain its autonomy so that it could set its own policies about admission and other things, rather than having to do what the Wizards’ Council tells it to do.”

“Good luck to you with that,” Tom said.

Hermione frowned. “Tom, do you think your friends are more likely to change anything soon?”

“Actually, yes. My friends are all from noble families,” he said proudly.

“But that’s exactly why we should work together,” Harry urged. “Aristocratic witches and wizards, along with… the rest.” He lowered his voice even further, to be absolutely certain that no one on Malfoy’s end of the Slytherin table could hear. “The uprising in Godric’s Hollow before I was born probably failed because they had no noble support.”

For a moment, Tom considered what Harry was saying, but then his face changed. “I’ll think about it, Potter,” he said. Hermione could tell he was not sincere.

She was interested in Harry’s new friends, however, and she asked him in Herbalism that day if she could be present whenever they met together. Even if Tom was not going to be part of that, she wanted at least to see what it was before deciding.

Harry seemed uneasy about Hermione being there alone. “You don’t want to ask _him…?”_

She gave him a level look. “I will ask him if I decide to meet with this group regularly. I do not require his permission for making new acquaintances.”

Harry backed off at once. “Certainly. I meant no offense. I’ll just have Luna escort you there. We were going to meet tonight—on the seventh floor.”

* * *

Despite her present frustrations with Tom, Hermione was not inclined to punish him by withholding affection from him. She cared about him, she was attracted to him, and then too, suddenly revoking intimacy from him would likely just alienate him. Besides, she thought, marriage—official marriage—to him was in her future.

That evening, when they were alone in their private nook, she noticed something new on the top clasp of his robes when she reached for it to remove them. “What’s this?” she asked, interested, gently touching the smooth black enameled medallion. It was inscribed with a green knot with three lobes and a circle, outlined delicately in silver.

Tom self-consciously covered it with his right hand. “It’s a Celtic Triquetra,” he said.

“Oh,” she remarked. “It’s very pretty. I have not seen this before on your robe.”

“I just made it today,” he said with a broad smile.

Hermione gently pulled his hand away to study it further. “Don’t be ashamed. This is good work.” She returned his smile as she opened his robe and slipped it from his shoulders.

After they were finished, entwined together on the transfigured mattress, Hermione felt that she could not be annoyed with him over anything. Judging from the contented look on his face, she guessed that he felt that same way—not that he had any reason to be annoyed with her over her defense of Daphne Greengrass. Worried, perhaps, because Adelaide Lestrange _was_ a vindictive person, but not annoyed.

He separated from her and began to put his robes back on. “I should go,” he said. “I need to meet with my allies soon.”

With that, the pleasant serenity of the previous moment was shattered. Hermione eyed him as she reached for her own robes. “You promised me that you would tell me what you discuss with your ‘allies’ when we were alone. We are now.”

He sighed. “Hermione, I’ve said that we talk about the legend of Slytherin….”

“And the legend of Arthur?”

He scowled. “Arthur was a pawn, but yes.”

“And in what _context_ do you discuss these things?” she asked, fastening her robe. “Studies of magical history? Is it an academic group, Tom—or something else?”

His scowl deepened. “Perhaps it’s both. I fully realize that I cannot ‘do anything’ just yet, Hermione. It _is_ important to have all the facts, to have a good understanding, first….”

She felt slightly relieved. “So you are taking this slowly. That makes me feel better. Just please, Tom, be careful. Make certain that you can trust these wizards.”

“I looked into their thoughts and made them take a magical oath,” he boasted smugly. “They are loyal. This needs to happen, Hermione. There have been several noble families, it seems, that have opposed the Wizards’ Council, but they haven’t been able to join forces. They needed a leader.”

“Be careful,” she repeated, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

They got to their feet and walked to the door. Before they left the room, he turned to face her. “I am careful,” he said, a lopsided smirk-like smile on his face, but tenderness in his dark eyes. “After this morning, you should take your own advice, my dear.”

* * *

Luna Lovegood brought Hermione to the seventh floor. Hermione felt self-conscious and hoped that it was not blatantly obvious to the others what she had just been doing an hour ago. It certainly wasn’t obvious to Luna, but then, this girl was a bit odd, Hermione thought.

“We are going to meet in the Come-and-Go Room,” she said in her ethereal voice. “Harry found it, but he says that his father and godfather told him about it.”

“That’s the room that appears when someone needs it?” Hermione asked.

Luna nodded firmly. “It must be very magical. The Founders must have all worked on it. They were very talented witches and wizards.”

That seemed obvious to Hermione. She had no reply but a bland statement of agreement. At last they reached the high floor. They passed down the corridor until they reached the end, and then Luna mumbled something under her breath. Hermione watched in interest as an outline of a door, and then the door itself, appeared in the stone wall. Luna opened it and stepped inside with Hermione.

Harry was there, as was Neville Longbottom. A red-haired girl was also there. There were also a boy and a girl who were wearing Hufflepuff regalia. They all stood as she entered the room.

“Lady Hermione,” Harry said formally. Hermione smiled to herself; he usually did not call her by her title, but obviously he wanted to make a positive impression and show proper manners in front of these others. “You know Miss Lovegood, of course, and Longbottom. I would also like to introduce Miss Ginevra Weasley, Ernest Macmillan, and Miss Susan Bones. My friends, this is Lady Hermione Granger.”

Hermione took a seat in one of the chairs that the room had apparently conjured. Harry and Neville Longbottom were presiding, it would appear.

“I welcome all of you to the first meeting of the Friends of the Founders,” Harry said, his voice somewhat nervous. “All the houses are represented, which is as it should be.”

“Should it?” muttered the red-haired girl, Ginevra. Luna shot her a harsh look, which took Hermione by surprise. She would not have guessed that the fairylike girl had any acid in her.

“Yes, Miss Weasley, it should,” Longbottom said firmly. “They did not all agree, but they would all be upset at what has happened to this school. Whatever the school’s rules are, the High Master and professors should be the people setting them.”

Harry continued. “Now, I am sure that we all know about the events in Godric’s Hollow fourteen years ago. I am not calling for another,” he said at once when a couple of faces grew alarmed. “But as you may know, Longbottom’s father is going to be the next mayor of Hogsmeade Village, and, well, I will let him explain.” With that awkward finish, Harry yielded the floor to Longbottom.

Longbottom was even more awkward than Harry, but he got his message across. “Harry is right,” he said. “My parents have kept order in Hogsmeade and my father is going to be the next mayor. Each generation of my family has refused to swear to the Malfoys… and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange especially hates my parents.”

Hermione’s full attention was on him. A suspicion had suddenly entered her mind.

“Tell them why,” Harry urged.

Longbottom took a deep breath. “My great-grandfather Longbottom married one of the Blacks. I’m sure all of you know how those three families—the Malfoys, the Lestranges, and the Blacks, I mean—are interrelated now. Lady Lestrange was certain that my family obtained family secrets of the Blacks through that marriage, and you know she was born a Black… and so she cursed my parents to try to learn what they were.”

“Cursed them?” Hermione asked softly, almost to herself, but Longbottom heard.

“Lady Hermione, have you wondered why I am an only child?” he asked darkly.

Hermione looked up, horrified. She had not. It had not crossed her mind. She herself was, of course, and she had known that the reason in her case had been her parents’ fertility difficulties.

“So… my father is going to align Hogsmeade Village even more closely with the school,” Longbottom continued. “They already have food agreements, of course, but my father is likely to swear openly to High Master Dumbledore as lord.”

“To the Wizards’ Council, that is a provocation,” Hermione observed. Longbottom nodded. “High Master Dumbledore, then—he is with this? He is your ally too?”

Harry and Neville suddenly looked very cagey indeed. “We considered using his name in the name of our group, but decided against it because he has not publicly taken a side himself,” Harry said, “but yes.”

At the end of the meeting, they asked all the attendees to sign a list. Hermione hesitated; for all her bluster about not requiring Tom’s permission, she did not really like going behind his back and pledging loyalty to anyone.

“To what exactly are we signing?” she asked.

“That you won’t tell any of Malfoy’s friends about us,” Harry explained. He gave her a meaningful look. “Riddle obviously isn’t Malfoy’s friend. I would not ask you to keep this from him. It would be inappropriate.”

It was blatantly obvious to her that the parchment bore a hex, but she did dip the quill in ink and affix her name to the document. The person behind her was Ginevra Weasley, who was staring at her with deep suspicion.

Hermione attempted to be polite as Ginevra signed the document. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of your family until now,” she said.

The red-haired witch peered at Hermione. “That should not surprise you, _my lady._ My brothers don’t associate with Slytherins.”

Hermione was affronted but tried not to let it show. “Well, they are missing out on knowing a quarter of the school, then. But obviously you do not share that objection.”

Ginevra considered. “Potter isn’t so bad,” she admitted. “Luna is my friend, and she likes him, so I decided to give him a chance. And you’re Muggle-born, so I suppose you’re different too.”

This was not a ringing endorsement, but Hermione took it for what it was worth. “Luna _likes_ him?” she repeated. Before her, Harry was flushing deep red.

“Right, then,” Harry said awkwardly.

“I don’t suppose that your fiancé is interested in meeting with us,” Ginevra said to Hermione.

She considered that for a moment but shook her head. “Not now. I could try to talk to him about it, of course.”

“He has friends of his own,” Ginevra said shrewdly. “I saw the division in Slytherin House.”

At this point, Luna Lovegood joined them at the front of the room. Hermione noticed that she instantly moved to Harry’s side. It was not possessive, exactly—at least, not in the jealous way that she was accustomed to experiencing from Tom—but rather matter-of-fact. She also remembered Ginevra’s cynical question about the houses, obviously a swipe at Slytherin, and thereby at Harry.

“We’re so glad you could be here,” Luna said sincerely, her eyes wide.

“I was happy to come,” Hermione replied. Something occurred to her, something that she meant to ask Longbottom before she left. It probably needed to be done in private. At the moment, the Hufflepuffs were clustering around Longbottom on the other side of the room.

“I would like to have a word with him at the end,” she said in a low voice to Harry. He nodded.

Once the room was finally cleared of everyone except Hermione, Harry, Neville, and—waiting by the door to escort her back to the dungeons—Luna, she approached Neville.

“Were your parents the ones who told Professor Dumbledore that Lady Lestrange tried to assassinate me?” she asked him baldly.

He looked nervous, but rallied himself at once. “Yes,” he said quietly. “They saw her face. You understand why they wanted to be anonymous.”

“Absolutely,” she assured him. “I am sorry for what she must have done to them. I understand completely.”

“Please don’t tell anyone else—except Lord Riddle, I suppose,” he amended.

“I won’t.”

* * *

Hermione did not see Tom or any of his friends in the common room that evening after Luna brought her back. She hovered near Harry, reading silently—or attempting to. Several of the _other_ group of Slytherins, including Adelaide Lestrange, recently released from the Healer’s ward, were giving her menacing looks. She did not like it. Her fear level increased as the evening advanced, ever so slowly. She wanted Tom and his friends to return. She and Harry were badly outnumbered without them. Even the other Slytherin girls, the Greengrasses and Millicent Bulstrode, had gone to their rooms. Hermione was tempted to do so herself if not for the fact that she wanted to tell Tom about what she had learned.

Finally— _finally—_ the door creaked open, and Tom filed inside with his friends. Hermione noticed at once that they were all wearing Celtic Triquetras near their necklines. Tom’s was vivid green, outlined in silver, on a black background while the rest of the boys wore more muted green on dark grey, but it was definitely the same symbol. Adelaide Lestrange sneered at them as they entered the common room.

Hermione rose from her seat and greeted him. “I need to tell you something,” she said. _“Privately.”_

He glanced quickly at Lestrange before nodding and ushering her outside.

“Neville Longbottom’s parents were the ones who identified _her_ mother that day,” she said almost in a whisper. “Apparently Lady Lestrange had cursed them violently years before, believing that they possessed Black family secrets.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “I have not thought much about who the informers might have been, but it doesn’t entirely surprise me. I didn’t know she had done that to them, though.”

“Yes, well, I met with several of their friends from other Houses of Hogwarts. He thinks his father is going to swear fealty to High Master Dumbledore as his actual lord once he becomes mayor of the village. That will be quite a challenge to the Malfoys.”

Tom considered this. “Yes, it certainly will.” Hunger appeared in his eyes. “As long as Potter doesn’t ask you to do anything… _disloyal…_ I’d like you to continue to go to these meetings and report back to me what happens, just like this.”

Hermione felt as if he had thrown cold water over her head. _“Disloyal?”_ she exclaimed. “Tom! After all this, you don’t trust me?”

“I trust you!” he exclaimed at once, pulling her close. His voice sounded sincere, she noted.

“But you don’t trust them,” she concluded.

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what their agenda really is. I can’t believe it is only about Hogwarts, and what you have told me does not change my mind.”

“Their agenda could be compatible with yours.”

“That’s why I would like you to find out what they are up to,” he said. He glanced around the corridor quickly to make sure they were alone, then kissed her on the cheek. “I trust you, Hermione. I trust Potter, more or less. I don’t even _know_ the rest of them, though.”

“You could come to their meetings—”

“No, I couldn’t,” he said at once. “I have allies of my own, and we own the fact that we are not just interested in policies of Hogwarts. I don’t think Potter’s friends are being honest. How could anyone not want power?” He kissed her again. “It’s all right, Hermione.”

She really, really hoped that it was.

* * *

The following day passed uneventfully. Adelaide Lestrange and her pack of girls kept giving Hermione, Tom, and Harry sinister looks, but they did not do anything overly threatening. Through the whole day, Hermione’s anxiety level rose, as she wondered what they were waiting to do and when they would do it.

That evening, High Master Dumbledore himself stood before the dinner tables in the Great Hall to make an announcement. His face was grim and unhappy as he spoke.

“I have been ordered by the high wizarding lords of England, Scotland, and Wales to inform you of new laws affecting our people,” he said, sadness in his words.

Tom had been interested in his dinner, but with this comment, his full attention transferred to Dumbledore. Apprehension filled his handsome face.

“First, the wearing of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon symbols is hereby prohibited anywhere on school grounds, or public places, or in a position of authority as a lord or lady of Wizarding Britain, for those of noble birth,” he said.

Tom’s eyes widened in shock—and then rage.

“Second, I am obliged to tell you that the high lords have instated—in their words—‘firm laws establishing authority’ and that after New Year’s Day, all commands and orders from a member of the Wizards’ Council carry the same force as the text of the Codex of Wizarding Law. That is all.” Dumbledore rolled up his scroll and took his seat grimly.

Hermione turned to Tom with horror. “They told! She told her parents—”

Tom was fingering the medallion on his robes. “It won’t stand,” he said, his words dark and threatening.


	18. Mounting Tensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you for the well-wishes last week! I am indeed feeling better. And with this chapter, we see some repercussions of the bomb dropped last chapter, as well as a major plot reveal. There is also another semi-explicit Tom/Hermione scene. Enjoy!

Tom Riddle strode into the Slytherin common room the next morning to wait for Hermione, so that they could walk to the breakfast table together. He rather hoped that Malfoy or Lestrange—or any of their friends—would be present, but the common room was deserted.

In a moment, Hermione appeared at the threshold of the girls’ dormitory area. She scanned the common room. Her eyes widened when she saw Tom standing smugly in the center of the room.

“You mean to defy them outright?” she asked quietly, her eyes still wide as plates, as they linked arms.

He smirked at her and began to walk toward the door with her. “Armand Malfoy’s decree said ‘Celtic or Anglo-Saxon _symbols,’”_ he said. He raised his other arm, allowing the dark green silk with pewter-grey Celtic knotwork embroidery to shimmer. “This is just a decoration. It does not symbolize anything.”

“They could just amend the decree,” she said as they exited the common room.

“Amend the decree to say what?” he said. “If they ban wearing anything depicting Celtic art, I will just carry something with it that is not an article of clothing. If they say that all forms of art and craft associated with Celtic culture are banned, that would mean the destruction of a great many books of magic, too, that happen to have Celtic knot borders, or Celtic-styled decorative letters, illuminating the pages.”

“That is true, but three members of the Wizards’ Council—or all of them—did decide to empower themselves that way.” She scowled. “At least _before,_ any change to the law required a majority of the Council, even if there _are_ only four wizards on it.”

Tom continued to smirk. “They have overreached, I think. This means that if Black, for instance, wants something different to what the rest of the Council wants—or any of them, for that matter—they will just unleash chaos among themselves with competing decrees.”

Hermione frowned. “Are you sure? I thought it meant that Armand Malfoy alone now has unchallenged power over the entire wizarding community of Britain. Since any member of the Wizards’ Council can make law without the approval of two others, legal authority in a conflict reverts to noble rank—and he has the highest.”

Tom stopped cold in the hallway. He gazed at Hermione, surprise and disgust spreading over his face. “You’re right,” he said abruptly. “I did not even think of that, but you are right. He just made himself a king without a crown.” Tom’s handsome face seethed at this revelation. “And what blood right does he have to this country’s throne? None.”

Hermione instantly knew where Tom’s thoughts had led—his own descent from the line of Arthur—and she acted to distract him from blurting something in the hall that would be very dangerous if the wrong people overheard. “It’s possible that he still overreached,” she said. “Lord Black and Lord Abraxas Malfoy—and I think Lord Lestrange too—were not violently against my admission at Hogwarts. They may disagree with Lord Malfoy over other matters, too. They obviously approved this new law very quickly, and I doubt they thought much about how it would restrict their own power.”

Tom gazed darkly ahead. “That is very… _hopeful_ of you,” he said.

“Let’s see what comes of it,” she urged. They were before the grand doors to the Great Hall, so he nodded silently and pushed them open.

As he ate breakfast, Tom pretended not to notice the impressed and fearful looks that several people were giving him—a couple of his own Lords of Beltane, Harry Potter, Professor Slughorn at the head table—but he was acutely aware of the interest that his defiance garnered.

Finally Adelaide Lestrange spoke, her voice low and malicious.

“You are a criminal, Riddle.”

Tom set down his spoon and gazed evenly at her. “How so, my ‘lady’?” His sarcasm on the final word was heavy.

“You know exactly how. Those robes are illegal.”

“No, they are not,” he said, smirking. “The Wizards’ Council banned _symbols._ This embroidery is merely decorative.”

_“Decorative?”_

“Yes, decorative. Tell me, if you think it is a symbol, then what does it symbolize?”

“It is symbolic of your primitive ancestors!” she snarled. “It symbolizes your dead culture! You wear something created by people who were defeated by the Romans, and then by several waves of barbarian tribes even before my family came. They were ground into the dirt they ate!”

Tom leaned forward, his face white with anger. “My lady mother ordered these robes sewn for me because they are opulent and the decoration is appealing. To her, it symbolizes _noble status.”_

“I do not believe that. Your mother is of the same blood. They symbolize your dead culture,” she repeated, apparently enamored of that phrase as an insult.

He pulled a book from his satchel and opened it to a page with similar decorations adorning the pages. “Is that what it symbolizes on these pages?” he hissed. “Is that what it symbolizes on tapestries in this school? What about all the magical artifacts that have this sort of decoration? Are you going to insist on destroying everything that contains something resembling Celtic art?”

Adelaide sneered back at him. “I see that you are just like your mother in that you try to exploit the laws that your superiors created, defying the spirit while adhering to the letter. Your filthy Mudblood should not be here either. She should be with dirty Muggles where she belongs. I suppose it does make sense for her to be given to you, since you also have impure blood, but she does not belong here.”

“Violent usurpers are never ‘superiors,’” Tom said, his voice so low that only Hermione and Adelaide could hear.

Adelaide’s race turned as red as a beet. “How _dare_ you?” she seethed. She drew her wand at pointed it across the table at him. “You had better watch yourself before you speak treason.”

“Wands away,” High Master Dumbledore announced, his voice amplified by magic. He was staring directly at the Slytherin table. “No duels over meals.”

Adelaide gave Tom another hate-filled sneer before putting her wand up. Tom’s gaze did not leave her face for the rest of breakfast.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Abraxas Malfoy rubbed his forehead. “Elf,” he commanded.

The Malfoys’ principal house-elf, Dobby, appeared, looking worn down and resentful to a more observant eye—but Abraxas did not notice the feelings or opinions of those beneath him. “What can Dobby do for Master Abraxas?” the elf croaked, a gleam of anger in his wide eyes.

“Bring me a bottle of wine,” Abraxas commanded, “and a goblet. A pair of goblets,” he amended, “in case my lord father desires some too.”

Armand Malfoy was raging in anger. “What I desire is a tonic!”

“Father,” Abraxas soothed, “the source is not ready for harvest yet. The wine will be good for you.” He turned to look at the elf, who was still present in the room. “What are you still doing here? Get to it, elf!”

With a glare of loathing, Dobby disappeared. He returned in a minute with the requested bottle of wine, a decanter, and two silver goblets with the Malfoy coat of arms.

“This came from across the way,” Abraxas said to his father as Dobby poured the wine for them. “Always a good way to remember the old country.”

The two wizards accepted their goblets without a word of thanks.

“It has been many years since you visited,” Armand Malfoy said, taking a sip. “In fact….”

“Yes, I have not been there since my lady wife’s funeral,” he said. “Are you feeling better now, Father?”

Armand took another sip, which dribbled down his chin like a trickle of blood. Abraxas averted his eyes. “I am calmer,” Armand admitted, “but this just means I can think more clearly. I want the head of the Riddle half-blood.”

Abraxas stared at his father in appalled astonishment. That did not, in his opinion, qualify as a clear-minded response. “Father, that’s a terrible idea, with all respect.”

“I can order it now, and who could contest me?”

“Father,” Abraxas said patiently, “ordering the execution of a fourteen-year-old boy for wearing certain robes will result in a mass uprising. You must realize that.”

Armand smiled malevolently. “We have authority. If they try to revolt, we will put them down just as Lucius put down the peasants in Godric’s Hollow.”

“Father, I don’t think it will be that easy. You will recall, too, that Lucius was only able to have two of the rebels executed. The rest escaped. If you order Riddle’s execution, he and the Mudblood will just Disapparate to his mother’s castle and stay safe behind those impregnable walls, probably offering support and shelter to anyone who joins with them.”

“He violated the law.”

“Technically, my lord father, he did not. As Draco writes, he declared that the embroidery on his robes does not symbolize anything specific, and asserts that similar decorative art appears on a wide variety of books and artifacts that are of great importance to wizarding people in this country.”

Armand glowered into his cup. “This is a pattern of defiance,” he finally said. “The boy’s mother, and now the boy.”

“That is very true, but I think it would be a grave mistake to call for his punishment.”

Armand considered further. “I need to do something to assert my authority. Perhaps I should amend the law to state that no Mudbloods may ever attend Hogwarts under any circumstances.”

“That would also incite an uprising, I fear. Apparently the Granger Mudblood is very intelligent and has friends at Hogwarts who are tied to Godric’s Hollow. Besides, if she were expelled from school, Lady Riddle would simply marry her to her son at once. Whether we like it or not, she is part of the magical aristocracy now.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Armand snarled.

Abraxas considered. “I suggest reducing their power through other means. We need to put pressure on Caractacus Burke to marry Lady Riddle.”

Armand thought about that, nodding. “Yes. I could order him—”

Abraxas closed his eyes. He hated to think it, but he was growing increasingly convinced that his father’s frequent doses of “tonic” were damaging his mind. “Father, the idea is to create a true ally. He is currently loyal to Lord Black, not specifically to us.”

“You think that Lord Black intends to usurp us?”

“No!” Abraxas exclaimed. “I mean that _Burke_ regards himself as a vassal of Lord Black. He is related to the Black family, not us. He needs a reason to _want_ to marry Lady Riddle. Right now, he sees it, correctly, as giving up being master of his own house to be a powerless consort.”

Armand thought about it. “So I could institute a male primacy law. The _Muggles_ have one such,” he said with a scowl, “but in this case, it would be to achieve an objective for wizarding blood purity. Their children would be pureblood.”

Abraxas nodded. “It would need to be a law that applied only to future marriages, of course, since there are several fiefs that are held by witches who are our allies.”

Armand agreed and took a final sip of his wine, draining the goblet. “Yes. That is what I will do, then.”

“Do make sure that it isn’t written in a way that would make Lord Thomas the Baron of Hangleton immediately, instead of his mother’s husband.”

“Yes,” Armand agreed. He turned to Dobby, who had not left the room. “Here, elf,” he commanded. “Wash these.”

* * *

Dobby the house-elf seethed in anger in the kitchens of Malfoy Manor. He hated his masters, and every time he did what he was about to do, he had to punish himself for it—but it would be worth it someday, he hoped.

He was also pleased that Lord Abraxas believed that the evil potion his father drank was causing his mind to become addled. In truth, Dobby was slipping other potions into Lord Malfoy’s cups at dinner, and if either of his masters ever guessed that and demanded to know, he would have no choice but to confess the truth. Such was the wicked magic of a house-elf’s enslavement. He would be killed—but still, even death was better than this.

Still, if there was a chance that Dobby’s activities could result in change, then he was willing to risk death. Taking a deep breath, he Disapparated to the one place that both he and his friend Kreacher were allowed to visit, the house of Lucius Malfoy—and Narcissa Black Malfoy.

Kreacher, the house-elf of Lord Regulus Black, was awaiting him in the basement of Lord Lucius’s castle in Godric’s Hollow. The wizened old elf croaked his greeting as the spry young Dobby appeared to give his report.

* * *

Tom sat next to Hermione in the common room, reading with her. His snake Dunlaith was coiled around one wrist, and Hermione’s cat Crookshanks purred behind the book that she was holding upright to read. It was a pleasant, domestic scene, Tom thought with satisfaction. He rather desired Hermione right now, but they would need to wait until after dinner.

“Do you own any robes with knotwork?” he asked in a low voice, inaudible to anyone else.

Hermione glanced at him. “No.”

“You should. You are half English, which means that you’re almost certainly part Celt. I can order some made for you. They would be ready by Yule or Christmas.”

“Tom,” she said quietly, “you really need to be careful.”

He sighed. “I am very careful. Have you seen any retaliation? I am sure that Malfoy wrote to his disgusting family about it, but they have not amended their law. I’m quite certain it is because they realize what kind of outrage there would be among their _subjects_ if they tried to destroy everything containing Celtic imagery.” He snarled the word “subjects” with distaste.

“They will not just give up, though. They know that if you continue to wear Celtic designs openly, you will be considered the ‘victor.’ They must be planning something else.”

Tom considered that. “They likely are,” he admitted, “but we don’t know what it may be. In the meantime, you need to join me in this. And”—he leaned over, whispering in her ear—“I want to see you wearing these designs.” His voice was low and sultry.

Hermione flushed faintly. That was certainly a persuasive argument.

* * *

After dinner, they escaped to their private room, both of them eager for each other. Hermione slipped out of her robes quickly, but not quite quickly enough for him. He reached for her waist, her underdress hanging loosely on her, and divested her of the garment with a flourish. She clung to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, as he lowered her to the floor and began to plant kisses up and down her torso.

“I want you,” he growled against the side of her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered closed at these words. A heated breath escaped her. “Then take me,” she said.

She was very certain that he was going to, but instead he hesitated for a moment. “There is something….”

“What is it?” At that moment she would do anything he asked if he would give her the relief she sought.

He paused again. “I want you to call me ‘my lord.’”

Her brown eyes widened. “Tom—”

He pushed her against the mattress, peering down at her from an angle, no longer touching her above the waist except for his palms on her shoulders. “No.”

She was not sure what this meant—if his ambitions had given him the idea, or if he simply enjoyed the title that he already had—but she did want him. Her core ached for him. “My lord,” she murmured. “Please.”

His eyes gleamed, and that smirk that she knew so well appeared on his handsome face. “Certainly.” In the next moment, he was inside her. Her eyelids closed again in bliss.

They moved in the now-familiar dance, caressing each other’s body in time with their movements, each touch heightened, gasping and quickly finding mutual release with each other. Tom collapsed on top of her afterward, breathing heavily as he kissed her mouth with leisurely abandon.

“I can hardly wait until we can do this every day and night without having to hide,” he murmured. He reached for her left hand and fondled it, giving special attention to her ring finger and the object on it.

“This is quite a change from the beginning of our relationship,” she teased.

He smirked. “I can acknowledge now that my mother guessed well. You would have been my own choice too.” He kissed her again.

“Even though I don’t have wholly English blood?” she said, still teasingly.

Tom sat upright, the smile vanished from his face. He wrapped his arms around his bent knees and gazed outward, away from her.

Hermione suddenly felt cold. “Tom?” she asked.

He turned toward her, and the smile was on his face again. “Even so,” he said. “Your paternal grandfather _was_ purely English… and which relative was it on your mother’s side?”

“My grandmother,” she said quietly.

He was gazing at her. “I know what happened with your father’s family—your grandfather’s marriage to the Norman noblewoman to secure the family fief back from the usurper lord—but what happened with your mother’s?”

“I have never told you?”

“I have never asked,” he admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

“Well,” she said, “it was not as interesting. My grandmother was the daughter of a knight. When the Normans came, her father was ordered into the service of the new lord. She ended up marrying a Norman knight in service to the same lord. They were granted a manor house… and their twin daughters married my father and my uncle.”

“So this side of your family aligned with the Normans,” he said.

Hermione was suddenly unnerved. “Tom, my great-grandfather on that side was _ordered._ The lord at least saw the value of having knights in his service who were from this country… and my noble Norman great-grandfather, on my father’s side, let an Englishman _marry_ his daughter.”

Tom was silent for another moment before finally replying. “They survived,” he said. “Both sides of your family did what was necessary to survive and to either regain what was theirs or to advance themselves.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She moved closer to him, pulling her outer robe loosely over her body. “They did what was necessary. So did your Gaunt ancestors… and I would guess your Riddle ones too, since your father was a knight.” She rather hoped he would take the point and stop trying to provoke trouble from the Malfoys….

“Hermione,” he said, turning to face her once again, “there is something I need to tell you.”

The moment of hope was gone. He looked terribly grave, and she braced herself.

“My friends… my allies… do not approve of you.”

She drew back. “Oh, do they _not?”_ she retorted. “Then in that case, Tom, I think you should explain to them that it is not their decision about what becomes of us.”

“They understand that,” he said. “They either have, or expect arranged betrothals of their own. They know about it. They do not blame me.”

 _“Blame_ you?” she exclaimed. “As if being engaged to me is _wrongdoing?”_

“That is not what I mean!” he said at once. “I should not have said it that way. I just mean… they know it isn’t my fault.”

Hermione rose to her feet and reached for the rest of her clothing. The feeling of intimacy was entirely gone. “Tom,” she said icily, “I think that you should say whatever it is that you are trying to say, and without words like ‘blame’ or ‘fault’ if that is possible.”

He scowled. “You _know_ what I mean. But very well—they understand about noble betrothals, and they do not know that we’re affectionate out of free choice. And this is why I cannot have you at the meetings with them.”

“So it is not just that it’s a ‘group for wizards,’” she said. She pulled her robes back on. “It’s also not a group for half-Norman Mudbloods.”

“Don’t call yourself—”

She gazed at him through narrowed eyes. “That is how they see me, is it not?”

He moved across the small room to where she stood and enveloped her in his arms. “Hermione,” he murmured, cradling her head against his neck, “it is not how _I_ see you. I am doing what is necessary—just as your family did, and mine. It won’t change anything between us. We will keep our affections private now, and after we have a public wedding too. No one has to know except us.”

“And your mother.”

“Well… after the public wedding,” he acknowledged. “I doubt we could hide it from her after we were openly living in the castle as a married couple, it’s true. But it doesn’t seem typical for nobles to know about private affection in other nobles’ marriages at all.”

“That is true in my experience,” she admitted. Tentatively she wrapped her arms around his waist. “But please don’t let these ‘allies’ change the fact that you care for me. Please.”

He kissed her. “I won’t.”

They remained in their embrace for a while before finally separating. They finished getting dressed and tidying themselves. Before they left the little room, Tom gazed thoughtfully at the rug on the floor, dark blue with Celtic patterns. Then he strode to it and flicked his wand, causing the rug to roll up. He cleaned it and picked it up.

Hermione stared at him in surprise. “Tom, what are you doing?”

“No one else seems to use this room, but when we are not inside it, it _is_ open to anyone in the school,” he said. “Someone might come in and decide to destroy it.”

“You are just going to… _steal…_ the rug from Hogwarts?”

“I am protecting it from being destroyed or defaced,” he said defensively, foisting it over his shoulder. “It will be in my private bedchamber. It won’t leave the castle.”

She considered for a moment before nodding.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Severus Snape stood on the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Next to him stood his liege, Lady Riddle.

“You are quite certain of this?” she asked, not looking at him.

“The little source heard it personally.”

She sighed. “I will not marry Caractacus Burke, you realize. I certainly will not surrender authority in my own castle and fief to him.”

“Of course not.” He wanted so badly to speak, but it was not the right time. That he could tell.

She turned to face him, skirts swishing in the chilly air. “Because the grant of divorce states that I abandoned Sir Thomas, I cannot remarry so long as he is alive.”

Severus’s words were bitter with disappointment. “My lady, he is a Muggle. It would be no trouble at all for the Malfoys to murder him.”

“I will go to his home and cast a ward of protection over it. It will prevent them from even entering the grounds, or anyone magical except my own blood.”

Severus swallowed. “My lady, there is an alternative. We could modify the Muggle records to show it as an annulment instead of a divorce, and then you and I could—”

“I will not break an oath, risking grave magical consequences, and delegitimize my son,” she said firmly. “I regret this, Severus—but please try to understand.” She sighed again. “Muggles do not always live long. If he should die a natural death any time soon, then we can have this discussion again. But for now, this is what must happen.”

Severus did not like it, but he did understand. He nodded and left her to her thoughts.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Winter intermission for Yule and Christmas was approaching rapidly, and with the chill of the air came a chill throughout the school over the Wizards’ Council edict, especially in Slytherin House.

Tom’s Lords of Beltane now sat with him at meals. Hermione always sat on his other side, and next to her sat Harry, but the “Lords” tended to treat both of them as if they did not exist. Apparently, given the alternative of verbal disdain that Tom had implied, that was preferable, but Hermione did not especially like the fact that her fiancé’s allies so obviously disliked her.

Their disapproval was never more obvious than it was at the leaving feast the night before the pupils were going to go to their homes for the two holidays. Tom conversed with Fawley with an air of arrogance, and whenever she asked him anything, he would turn to her with an air of tolerant coolness that made her heart hurt every time even though she told herself that it was just an act.

 _Even if he does think he needs allies,_ she thought, sipping her spiced cider, _he should make them accept me! We are betrothed. According to his reckoning, and his interest in the ancient ways, we are married. I have given myself to him! I deserve more than this._ Her face grew hot and tears threatened to fall as she bent her head and shoveled food down her throat. Her bushy hair hid her face, which relieved her.

Harry seemed to notice that she was distressed. He gave her a sympathetic glance, to which she returned a shaky smile.

On the other side of the table, Draco Malfoy, Adelaide Lestrange, and their friends glared at their adversaries across the tabletop and muttered amongst themselves. As soon as she was able to feel confident about looking up, Hermione stole a glance in their direction. Her eyes widened momentarily at the sight of Malfoy staring at Astoria Greengrass.

 _I can hardly blame him,_ she thought, _but this cannot end well. He is to marry Lestrange, and Daphne obviously hates the idea of him looking at her younger sister. Still, I wonder what she would think of it if the betrothal with Lestrange were called off… it might be a chance to subvert the Malfoys…._

Hermione returned to her food at once. It would not do any good to speculate about things that were not in her power to change. Her thoughts turned instead to the imminent holidays, and the chance to be with Tom in his own family castle, away from these wizards whom he felt he had to impress by being cold to her in public. The ghost of a smile formed on her face at that. Yes, tomorrow would be a better day than today was.

* * *

Merope’s house-elves were waiting for Tom and Hermione the next morning when they carried the items that they were bringing home into the courtyard. Tom’s snake was enclosed in a large jar, which was covered with cloth and warmed with a spell to protect the snake from the cold temperatures of winter. Hermione held Crookshanks herself, and the large fluffy cat was quite content in her arms. The two elves stepped forward and reached for the young couple, Disapparating them to the castle grounds.

Once she had greeted Merope and settled into her bedchamber, Hermione went to the Gaunt library. She was not particularly surprised when she saw that Tom was already there.

He smiled at her as she approached, and it warmed her to the core to see that it was a genuine smile. It appeared that she was correct, and he would indeed be openly kind to her when those boys were not present.

He drew her knuckles to his lips in greeting. “I have found something marvelous,” he said.

She tried to see what he was reading. “Oh?”

He held up the book, titled _The Book of Morgana._ “I was not allowed to read this before,” he said. “Mother had hexed it, but I guess she lifted the hex from this one.”

Hermione suppressed a frown at the title of the book. “What have you discovered?” she asked, trying to appear sincerely interested.

“Well, this purports to be a transcription of Morgana le Fay’s own… diary, I suppose,” he said. “If that is true, then she was definitely married to Arthur by the old ritual, and she also asserts that her son Mordred was not, as he was commonly claimed to be in later sources, a deformed cripple.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “That is certainly interesting about him… and the part about the ritual confirms what you suspected, I suppose.”

He gave her a querying look. “Yes, it does. She says—again, if this really is what she wrote—that ‘Queen’ Guinevere called Mordred that, because she was angry that she could not bear Arthur any children, and because she considered magic an abnormality—an abomination, in fact. So she lied about the nature of Mordred’s ‘deformity’ and claimed it was because Arthur and Morgana were half-siblings.” Tom scowled. “I wonder if that is why she slept with Lancelot, because she wanted to have an heir and did not much care if it was a fraud. Too bad for her.”

Hermione did not comment on that. “Of course, this is all Lady Morgana’s point of view.”

“Yes… but she was a witch.”

Hermione also decided not to pick a fight with him over that assertion, but it troubled her that Tom would automatically regard the word of a magical person as more credible than that of a Muggle. “So this is what is marvelous?” she asked. “The fact that Mordred was of sound body?”

“Well, I actually meant something else,” he said with a smirk. “She wrote that she believed Merlin dabbled in black magic involving _time.”_

“Time?” Hermione repeated, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Tom nodded smugly. “If that’s true, then _he_ was the one whose brain was probably addled. Even if it is not, he definitely enabled a Muggle warlord to rape a witch, and he turned a father against his son because that son was a wizard. If this claim is true, then he was a hypocrite, too, using dangerous magic himself—and manipulating kings—but not wanting anyone else with magic to have power. Merlin was the first great blood-traitor, and it is a disgrace that so many of our people almost worship him.”

Hermione gently reached for the book. “Tom, I have read about the legend of King Arthur too, and it does seem that Merlin helped Uther Pendragon realize his vile desire… but the rest of it is Morgana’s own perspective.”

“I believe her perspective,” he said. His tone of voice indicated that the subject was closed.

Hermione decided not to argue. In the absence of a definitive authority, it _was_ a good idea to know of multiple perspectives, and it was just possible that Morgana le Fay’s claims—if the book that Tom held was a faithful transcription of her thoughts—had some validity to them as well as the histories that Hermione already knew. She took Tom’s hand in her own and squeezed it.

* * *

That evening, Hermione tiptoed into Tom’s bedroom, her heart thumping with anticipation. The last time she had been here, they had merely slept in the same bed. She knew that more was going to happen, and the idea was very exciting to her—an early opportunity to enjoy her future marriage bed.

Tom seemed to be expecting her. His sleep robes were open and he was reading that same book in bed. When she entered the room, he closed the tome and set it aside.

“I thought you would want to do this,” he said as she boldly climbed on the mattress.

She flashed him a grin. “It is not exactly a difficult thing to guess.”

He gripped her waist possessively and leaned close to her, his eyes intense and dark. “I would have come to your room for you if you had not.”

His words sent a jolt down her spine. She pressed close to him, wrapping her legs around his waist as her sleep robes rode up her thighs. He leaned in and nipped her on the side of her neck as he pressed her into his mattress.

After they were finished, and their breathing had returned to normal, she shifted and made to climb down from the bed.

“Stay,” he murmured.

She halted. He was asking this. He had been so nervous about this over the summer, when all they had done was spend the night together, but now he wanted her to sleep next to him after they would _not_ be able to claim that their affections were innocent. Warmth and relief filled her. He did choose her. His behavior before his “friends” was the political front that he had claimed it was. With a smile on her face, she curled against him and soon fell asleep.


	19. Oathbreaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you once again for your interest and support! I am especially grateful at the moment because this story is about to take a turn. I'm afraid that most (though not all) of the innocently sweet parts are behind us, and this chapter is rather dark. Be warned.

Merope drew away from Tom’s bedchamber door without knocking. She was almost certain that Hermione was inside—for where else could the young lady be, if not in her own room or the library?—but if her guess was correct, she did not really want to disturb and embarrass them. She stepped back and gazed out a small diamond-paned window. The morning light streamed through, providing a bit of illumination to the stone hall.

During the summer, Merope had caught Tom and Hermione embracing, huddling close in private discussions, and kissing when they believed themselves to be unobserved. It would not shock her a bit if they had progressed beyond that at Hogwarts. With a final gaze at the closed door, Merope walked down the hallway to the nearest staircase and began to descend, thinking.

Even now, she did not regret her marriage—it had given Merope her son—but she did feel wistful while thinking of the happy young couple upstairs. _This is how it should have been for me,_ she thought. _A good, appropriate match to a nice wizard, who was already my friend. Years to become close, and the approval of both our families. Not a desperate elopement with a Muggle, with a great lie at the core, to escape the threat of rape and incest._

She sighed to herself as she reached the next level down. _At least I could give Tom that,_ she comforted herself. _At least I knew my son well enough, and—more relevantly—cared about his contentment in life, that I could correctly identify a witch he would like._

She had heard nothing from Severus about Tom and Hermione’s probable behavior, nor from any of her noble correspondents, which meant that they were discreet enough at Hogwarts that none of their schoolmates knew. That meant they certainly could not be using his bedchamber in the Slytherin dormitories. Probably they had found a private room in a little-used part of the castle. A part of Merope wished that they had restrained themselves for a couple more years, but she supposed that Tom _was_ only a few days away from 15. Young people had hot blood, and this was far better than if he had ignored Hermione (except for public displays of propriety) and sought out girls of lower status. _That does not seem to be that common at Hogwarts among the young lordlings, at least,_ she thought. _Perhaps they don’t want to behave in such ways with other witches, even common-born witches—and perhaps the girls are worldly enough to know that such flings cannot end well for them personally. But Muggle village girls at their homes…._

Merope shook her head. If there was one thing she knew for certain about Tom, it was that he would not touch a Muggle. His open contempt for almost all of them was actually a bit disconcerting to her. No—it was more than contempt. _She_ had a certain degree of disdain for them. It was probably inevitable that a witch or wizard would have that. But with Tom, it was almost hatred, at least for those with Norman blood. She had seen such hatred before, although with her brother and father, it was for all Muggles and even most wizards. Nevertheless, she was pleased that Tom and Hermione were so happy together. _If anyone else but me could influence him, it’s Hermione,_ she comforted herself.

Merope walked down the hall and passed by the potions laboratory, which suddenly made her stop cold. _I hope that Hermione is taking the potion to prevent pregnancy,_ she thought worriedly. _If she is not, she won’t be able to stay at Hogwarts, which means she won’t be declared a master of any branch of magic… which means she won’t be allowed to carry a wand in public. This is important._ She resolved to get her message to Tom and Hermione in some way while minimizing embarrassment to them.

* * *

Tom stretched and blinked awake. His dark eyes quickly adjusted to the beam of sunlight that streamed through his window. His gaze shifted as he became aware of the soft warm body curled next to him. A contented smile formed on his face… and then he put the two sensory inputs together. His heart thumped in sudden anxiety.

“Wake up!” he exclaimed, nudging Hermione hard.

She jolted in bed and her eyes popped open. “Tom? I—oh _no!_ It’s morning!” The realization was instantaneous. She threw the heavy cover back, revealing a sleep robe that was open all the way down and bunched around her waist. She quickly fastened it, covering herself as she stumbled out of his bed.

“No, don’t dart out,” he said, the plan forming in his mind as he spoke. “I should go first. I will go to the little dining room and wait for breakfast. If Mother is there, I’ll keep her distracted. Then you can come down separately.”

Hermione halted, considering. Tom watched as the tension seemed to evaporate from her body, her frantic desperation dissipating. She nodded slowly and walked back to his bed, sitting down on the mattress again. She faced out the window for a bit, the sunlight catching her hair and making it shine like bronze and amber—a veritable goddess of magic to him. Almost involuntarily, he reached for her waist.

She turned in his arms to face him. “Not so urgent?” she said softly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“It’s a bad idea,” he agreed, kissing her as he lowered her onto the mattress, “but….”

She laughed.

* * *

At the breakfast table, Merope did not act as if she suspected anything. She merely gave Tom and Hermione mild smiles as the elves served them. The young people themselves were self-conscious, though. Hermione was certain that Tom’s mother could see behind her brown eyes and divine her secret. Tom was wondering if they had waited too long before making their separate exits from his bedchamber. As a result, Merope was the one who had the most to say during the meal.

“Lord Severus is going to be at the castle today,” she said, grimness suddenly filling her voice. “He is going to bear witness to a document I must sign.”

That got Tom’s attention. _“Must_ sign?” he repeated. “Mother, I hope this has nothing to do with the Malfoys or the Wizards’ Council’s new laws.”

“It does not,” she said. Her tone was darker than Tom had ever heard from her lips, and he fixed his gaze on her in interest. “The Carrows have sworn fealty again to the Lestrange family, this time with the full knowledge that you and I are alive. They formally repudiated their oaths to this family on Hallowe’en night. There are many witnesses. They are traitors and oathbreakers, and the document I am going to sign today is an execution order.”

Hermione and Tom both set down their cups and stared at her. Her eyes, usually confident and steely in a maternal way, were full of a much colder steel now.

Hermione understood that nobles had to take a firm hand sometimes, and death _was_ the punishment for treason—but Lady Merope had become a second mother to her. It was difficult to consider a parental figure doing this because she had never seen or heard of her own father ordering the execution of anyone… _though perhaps it was because they never had to deal with traitors, murderers, or other criminals who should get death,_ she thought uncomfortably. Her father had shown mercy to thieves from the local village, ordering sentences in the dungeon in lieu of hanging, and that was basically the worst kind of crime that ever occurred in his fief. It was a peaceful place. It did not seem likely to Hermione that the Carrows would actually be executed any time soon; the Lestranges would protect them, but this was still _very_ different to what she had known as a young girl. Death sentences, oathbreaking, treason, attempted assassination—the wizarding nobility were almost at war with each other, it seemed to her.

Tom was impressed with his mother’s resolve. He had not known of the Carrows’ perfidy, but if they had repudiated their oaths and sworn to the Lestranges while knowing full well that their rightful liege and her heir lived, then it was the only logical thing to do. To ignore that act was to display weakness to the foul Norman usurpers.

“I realize how this will be seen in the Wizards’ Council,” she continued, “but they cannot punish me for enforcing the law of this country. Even if Rodolphus Lestrange and the Malfoys choose to ignore it, oathbreaking is an act of treason.”

Tom digested this. “You say nothing of Arcturus Black.”

“I….” Merope hesitated, studying Tom and Hermione, deciding something. “I have reasons to think that he alone of the Wizards’ Council may have slightly different views.”

“He did not seem quite as averse to Hermione’s attendance at Hogwarts,” Tom agreed. He scowled. “Of course, he is of an actual English family. Maybe, even though he has been a toady for years, he finally realizes that these vile foreign invaders have taken power away from the rightful wizarding lords of England.” Disgust seeped from his words.

Hermione gave him an uneasy look before speaking. “Lady Merope, you don’t think that the Malfoys and Lestranges could simply declare the Carrows’ prior oaths to you null and void?”

“They probably will,” she agreed, “but the oaths were made with the Carrows’ own magic. They were not Unbreakable Vows… but they will suffer the consequences of their faithlessness.”

Tom looked up, interested. “How does that work?”

“Wizarding oathbreakers are cursed,” Merope said firmly. “It is not possible to predict specifically how, unless a formal mechanism is used like the Unbreakable Vow… the idea behind that is indeed to harness the magical power that underlies all wizarding oaths… but if we swear something and then break our word, our own magic will punish us in some way.”

Tom seemed surprised to learn this. “That’s interesting,” he murmured. “Is that true for _all_ contracts, or just those that we imbue with magic?”

“The effect is much greater for magical contracts.” Merope gazed at him. “I have to ask, Tom, where these questions tend?”

“You swore fealty to Armand Malfoy,” he said.

“I did,” she agreed, “but I am not breaking my oath. In fact, I think _he_ is the one who has done that, with this recent usurpation of power. I swore to him under the Codex of Wizarding Law, but he has essentially declared that _he_ is the law now. I think even a noble can act in a lawless manner. That was the point of the old Wizengamot: the Codex, which it devised over many generations, has legitimacy because all of the lords and ladies could help shape it but also agreed to be bound by it.”

Tom nodded firmly. “And this sentence that you will sign is a statement that we still recognize that, and that this new order is not legitimate.”

They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione considered what she had just heard. Tom could not help but speak venom about the Normans, but she approved of his last statement about the primacy of law under the old system. If he concentrated on _that,_ she would feel better about his political interests.

After the meal was over, the family removed to the castle library. Hermione was surprised to see Merope following her and Tom. In fact, the lady seemed to want to speak privately to her; she was slowing down her pace so that Tom could get ahead of them.

Tom gave the ladies a quick look before darting off toward a specific section of the family library. Merope guided Hermione to a window on the other side of the room, out of his hearing.

Hermione was suddenly nervous. Her early-morning activities with Tom surged to the forefront of her mind again.

“Hermione,” Lady Merope said in a quiet tone, “I wanted to ask you if my son has mentioned his idea of early marriage to you again.”

Hermione was startled. She racked her brains to try to remember. “I cannot think of any instances,” she finally said. “At least, not in a serious way. He may have alluded to it as an idle reference to the time when he _did_ want it seriously.”

Merope gazed at her face. “You understand what would happen if you did, right?”

Hermione very much wished at this moment that she could perform Legilimency. Did Tom’s mother _know?_ “I do,” she said slowly. “I would have to leave Hogwarts, and I would not ever be a master.”

Merope nodded. “There is a potion to prevent conception, of course—but yes.”

She flushed deeply, almost certain now that Merope knew what was going on and was sending her a message. She considered her words. “Yes, I know about it,” she said. She met the older woman’s eyes. “In fact, I can make it.”

Merope looked satisfied. “Good.” She moved away, heading toward the library doors.

Hermione stood there, thinking about the discussion. It seemed all too obvious to her that Lady Merope did know exactly how intimate her engagement with Tom had become, and had been relieved to hear Hermione’s implication that she was taking the needed precautions. That was embarrassing… but Lady Merope seemed not to have a problem with their intimacy in and of itself.

She took a deep breath and went to where Tom was reading. He needed to be told too.

The title of the book that he was reading became clearer as Hermione drew nearer. _Verbum Magus,_ it read. Tom was perusing it intensely, his brow furrowed. When he saw her coming, he closed it and placed it back on the shelf.

“I saw it already,” she said, an eyebrow raised.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” he said defensively. “I just saw you approaching and wanted to give you my full attention.”

“What is it about?”

He looked for a fraction of a second as if he wanted to scowl, but he did not. “Magical oaths and contracts,” he said. “What Mother said at the table interested me.”

“Well,” Hermione said, a wry smile on her face, “I think you will find what she just told me even more interesting.” She explained to him what Merope had just discussed with her.

Tom was staring at Hermione, and color was creeping into his cheeks. It was a rarity that he ever blushed, and she noticed.

“I suppose we should not be quite so… _frequent…_ in our affections,” he said reluctantly.

“I did not get the impression that she disapproved, necessarily,” she objected. “She seemed to want to find out, without asking outright, if I was taking the potion to prevent pregnancy. The last thing she said to me was ‘good.’”

Tom considered. “Very well,” he said. “I certainly don’t _want_ to keep away from you.” He smirked.

She returned the smirk.

* * *

That afternoon, Merope gathered the people of the Muggle village to the castle courtyard. Severus Snape stood near her in a subordinate place, and Tom and Hermione were on her other side. She held up the judgment that she had just signed.

“Amycus Carrow and Alecto Carrow have forsaken their vows,” she called out in a strong voice. “They have forsworn their duties and broken faith. They have also pledged their faith to others with full knowledge that their rightful and lawful liege lives.”

The townspeople jeered and roared disapproval.

“I hereby name them oathbreakers, criminals, and traitors,” she proclaimed, “and sentence them to death!”

Another burst of noise came from the townsfolk, interspersed with applause. Hermione reflected on how easy it was to whip up a mob against someone. Even if the cause was just, it was a little unsettling.

“May death take them wherever they may be. Though they may attempt to evade justice, sheltering under the arms of those who have accepted their unlawful oaths, they will suffer the natural and unavoidable fate of those who forsake their solemn vows.”

Tom suppressed a smirk. Yes, there would be consequences of some sort to the Carrows. He had finished half of that book in the library, and that much was very clear.

Merope paused, as if trying to make a final decision about something. The pause went on longer than such a gap normally would, and Tom started to turn his head toward her, when she spoke again. Her voice was a bit nervous. “Furthermore, I name Lord Rodolphus and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange as enemies of this family, household, village, and fief, for claiming to accept the traitors as liege man and woman.”

Tom’s mouth fell open, but he instantly shut it. His eyes were wide with shock as he turned to look at his mother. He noticed as he did that Hermione had also turned sharply to look at her, and her eyes were so wide that the whites almost fully encircled her irises.

“The barony of Hangleton hereby declares that a state of enmity exists so long as Lord Lestrange harbors the oathbreakers. To speak, correspond, or otherwise conduct any transactions with Lord or Lady Lestrange or a Lestrange vassal without our leave is to name oneself a traitor in turn. Should he render the Carrows unto us for justice, this state of enmity shall be dissolved. So let it be.” She rolled up the scroll that she carried, and turned back toward the castle, followed by the young people and Severus.

Once they were inside and had their privacy, Tom spoke up. “I did not realize you were going to name the Lestrange family as our enemies,” he said, awe and approval in his words.

She gave him a thin, resigned smile. “I had little choice. They accepted the word of known traitors. They are just as culpable, and if I had not called them out, they would have made note of it and assumed that I was too cowardly.”

“This is an escalation,” he remarked.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, “but I did not choose this. They resented our contract with Hermione’s family, and our appeal of their first decision regarding her Hogwarts admission, far more than I realized at the time. And then there is the fact that you and Hermione took vengeance on their daughter for that vile attack last year… not that you _shouldn’t_ have,” she said at once. “You did right.”

“May we speak to her?” Tom asked, grinning. “And curse her if she tries anything? I would not want to be a traitor, and I am sure that she will speak to us.”

Merope managed a grin herself. “Yes, you and Hermione may.” The grin faded from her face. “But… there is the possibility that the Carrows will tell the Lestrange family false things about your deceased relatives. They may already have,” she conceded, “but before, they were hiding from my brother—who _was_ a bad lord and did wicked things. They may claim worse things occurred. It might be that anything Lady Adelaide repeats from them will seem believable, since you know that he was wicked. I must ask you not to believe the words of traitors, repeated by an enemy. If you want to know something in particular, ask me.”

Tom nodded firmly. “Of course. I know that Adelaide Lestrange is a foul liar.”

“I considered mentioning her attack on Hermione as well today, and Lady Bellatrix’s attempt on Hermione’s life, but I decided not to do so. The girl _might_ have acted alone, without her parents’ leave, and the only proof that Lady Lestrange tried to murder Hermione is the word of… sources… who cannot be exposed. But yes, this _is_ an escalation.”

“We have to fight them, though.”

Merope sighed, the smile—grim though it was—vanishing from her face. “Yes, we do. I hope that it does not become more than a battle of words and declarations.”

Hermione glanced surreptitiously at Tom. His mother was not looking at him, but it was very clear to Hermione that he did not agree.

* * *

Despite that dark and foreboding beginning, the remainder of the holidays passed peacefully and pleasantly. On Yule, Merope lit the new Yule log with the remnant of the previous year’s, again bearing the ancient staff of the Gaunts. Snow fell that night, appropriately, and Hermione escaped to Tom’s bedchamber when the flakes started falling. There was just something about snow that made her want to be close to him.

“You know,” he murmured softly in her ear afterward, “I think that you and I need to start making preparations too.”

“Preparations for what?”

He hesitated. “I was thinking about what Mother said a couple of days ago. I fear that this is _not_ going to remain ‘a battle of words,’ and we need to take precautions.”

“Tom, what exactly are you talking about?”

“The Chamber of Slytherin,” he said. “I believe there is a great weapon living in the bowels of Hogwarts, and it rightfully belongs to this family. We will probably need it, too.”

“Tom, this again?” she said. His eyebrows narrowed, and his grip on her became tighter. “No, please, listen to me. If there really is a great snake there, and it is a basilisk, it is a _deadly_ creature—even to you. How exactly are you going to get it out of Hogwarts and to this castle, and _where_ would you keep it if you did?”

“I could put it to sleep and blindfold it,” he said. “And I could keep it in the dungeons. We need all the weapons we can get, and we need allies, too. Formal allies, bound by oaths on the part of the ruling lords, not just their sons’ oaths to me. I would like all of my friends’ families to swear oaths of alliance to my mother.”

“That would be seen as a declaration of war by the Wizards’ Council.”

“Maybe war is inevitable. Maybe it _ought_ to happen,” he added. “Armand Malfoy has to die. You do realize that, right? After what he has done, the power he has arrogated to himself?”

Hermione closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “But he is old. Perhaps he will die a natural death—”

“I don’t think he will.”

Her eyes popped open again. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“There is something wrong with him. I will never forget how he looked at the Wizards’ Council meeting. He looks half-dead already. I have a theory….”

“I did notice that, but what do you mean?”

“I have read things that would shock my mother,” Tom confessed. “She already knows that I’m aware of these subjects, but I doubt she realizes _how much_ I know about them. Malfoy has all the signs of a drinker of unicorn blood, according to what I have read of it.”

Hermione considered this. Suddenly the snowflakes falling outside the castle were not so cozy, but instead, were just cold and lethal. “I have heard a little about that,” she said. “It is the slaughter of an innocent creature, a creature representing purity, and it curses the person.”

“It curses the person for the rest of their life. Nothing can lift it. But… it _does_ provide health, even to one at the literal point of death.”

“Does it protect the drinker from curses?”

“No,” Tom said, a dark smile spreading over his face. The gleam of the magical flames atop the castle watchtowers reflected on the blanket of snow, casting an eerie glow into the room and making him look sinister. “It does not. So, yes, he could die of _unnatural_ causes. Unless….”

“Unless?”

Tom hesitated again. “Hermione, in all your reading, have you ever come across the term ‘Horcrux’?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to discuss it in detail right now. I will give you a book about it tomorrow in the library. But it involves the soul, and it is the method that witches and wizards can use to evade death.”

“I think your mother briefly mentioned both of these things to me on my first visit to Diagon Alley. You were showing off for me,” she said with a wry smirk, “and she explained in greater detail. But she did not use the name.”

“I remember that,” he said. “In any case, I don’t _think_ Malfoy has one, but I cannot be sure. I did not know what the telltale sign was when we were at that Wizards’ Council meeting. I have read more about it since I last saw him, though.”

“What is this telltale sign?”

“Flashes of red in the pupil of the eye. So, yes, I think he could die, and he needs to. And so does Lord Abraxas, in my opinion. In fact, the Wizards’ Council needs to be dissolved.”

“You want the Wizengamot reinstated?”

“I want the Wizengamot reinstated, and we need a wizard king. In the ancient Celtic clans, the priest had more power than the chieftain, and it was real power, official power, not merely the power of a wizard advisor whispering in the king’s ear in private like _Merlin,”_ he said, snarling. “We have been ceding power for centuries, and since these Normans came, it has been even worse. If it does not stop, we will have to hide the very fact that we _are_ witches and wizards. The Malfoys and Lestranges do not even care as long as they can keep power in their own families.”

Hermione was uneasy, and a little frightened, if she were honest. “Tom, you need to go to sleep,” she urged. “Getting angry and upset like this will not solve anything.”

“You’re right,” he said abruptly. He pulled her close. “Hermione, my mother’s actions a few days ago will have consequences. I do not know what, but there will be some. Promise me, if things get very bad….” He trailed off.

“Then what?”

He was silent for a moment. “After what I read today about oaths, I do not want to ask you to swear to anything specific,” he said. “Just promise me that you will listen to my advice and consider it.”

“I can consider it,” she agreed. “I promise you that.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night.”

Hermione wanted to question him further, but drowsiness was tugging at her eyelids too.

* * *

True to his word, Tom gave Hermione a book bound in black leather the next day in the library. Merope was not there, or she might have raised objections. Hermione opened it and eyed the table of contents, turning to the section in question.

“It was invented by Herpo, the ancient Greek wizard who also bred the first basilisk,” Tom said in a low voice. They were by the window, on the far side of the library. He had steered her there in case his mother or Snape came in. “That was why he did it, in fact, to protect himself from its gaze. The Greeks had had the theory for a while, but he was the one who succeeded. From there the knowledge spread to the Romans, and they brought it to the Celts.” He paused, thinking. “Hermione, when you read that, please keep in mind that someone could have a legitimate reason for doing it. And it is not the same as slaughtering an innocent for its blood and incurring an unbreakable curse.”

“All right,” she said gingerly, beginning to read. Tom stood by uneasily, watching her. Her eyes grew wide, and at one point she actually tilted her head away from the pages, a look of shock on her face. Finally, she finished the chapter. She turned to him, eyebrows high on her forehead.

“Is _this_ what High Master Dumbledore caught you reading?”

“No,” he said, scowling at that memory. “I was reading about ancient Celtic magic.”

She closed the book. “Tom, are you thinking of _doing_ this?”

“No,” he said at once. He paused. “Well, only if it was a necessity to preserve this family line.” He gave her a sardonic smirk. “I would ask Mother to let me have one of the Carrows.”

Hermione put the book back on its shelf. “Please don’t joke about such things.”

He turned and gazed out the window for a moment, then faced her again. “Fair enough. I won’t.”

* * *

They observed Christmas and then Tom’s fifteenth birthday. Hermione gave him a gift of a cushion that she had embroidered—with the coat of arms that his mother had created for the wizarding Riddles, he noted with pleasure.

“I have a gift for you too. It can be a gift to mark the new year,” he said. He set the cushion down and raised his wand, summoning something presumably from his bedchamber.

Merope looked surprised as a package drifted into the room, where Tom was waiting for it. He presented it to Hermione. She pulled away the rough sackcloth that covered it. Beneath was a silken dark green robe. She lifted it to see the entire article of clothing. It was almost a perfect duplicate of the dark green robes he had, the ones with Celtic knot embroidery on the hems, up the middle, and on the edges of the wide trumpet sleeves.

“We need to wear ours on the same days,” he explained. “A matched pair.”

Hermione hardly knew what to think. Tom seemed determined to incite the Lestranges and Malfoys, and he wanted to pull her into his scheme as well. For her part, she had never thought of herself specifically as part _Celtic._ She knew that she almost certainly was, but she considered herself English. Even her Norman antecedents had settled—or lived their entire lives—in _this_ land, adopting many of the customs of _these_ people, making peace and even marrying into the families of an English lord and a knight. But then, she reflected, she did not have an unbroken line of witches and wizards whom she could trace back to ancient times, as Tom did on his mother’s side.

She turned to Tom and managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “This is beautiful.”

He smiled broadly.

* * *

Tom asked that she wear her new robe on the day that they had to return to Hogwarts. As she had expected as soon as he made the request, he appeared in the common areas of the castle wearing his matched robe. He smirked and took her arm with his. “I cannot _wait_ to see the looks on Lestrange and Malfoy’s faces,” he said. “And her family are now officially enemies.”

Hermione did not like how eager he was to have this fight. As the elves Disapparated with them, she felt that many things were starting to twist and whirl out of her control, and unlike this Apparition, she was heading for a destination that she did not even know.

They landed in the Hogwarts courtyard, steadying themselves. The elves set down their trunks, bowed, and Disapparated back to Hangleton. Tom turned to Hermione, admiring her in the robes that he had wanted her to wear. He brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles in the innocent, courtly way that he so often did in public—and then he changed his mind. He dropped her hand, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her close.

Hermione could hardly believe that he was doing this in the open, but in the brisk cold, his warmth and the heat of their breath when they were so close made this irresistible. She cupped his face and leaned in as he bent his head to meet her lips. Clouds of white vapor escaped their mouths and noses.

“Riddle!” exclaimed a male voice. Tom pulled away, gazed over her head, and found himself meeting the disapproving gaze of one of his “Lords of Beltane.”


	20. The Stain of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again! And pre-emptive apologies for this chapter, but as I have said in comment replies, there's no story without conflict.

Tom released Hermione and gave Edgar Fawley a rakish smile. “Fawley,” he acknowledged.

The young wizard seemed inclined to say something, but he changed his mind. “It’s good to see you again,” he got out.

“Likewise,” Tom said. He quickly disengaged from Hermione. “I had a _fine_ holiday,” he said to Fawley, his tone knowing.

The boy gazed at Hermione, regarding her with undisguised disdain, and a cruelly knowing smile spread over his face. “Ah. I see.”

Hermione looked from Fawley to Tom in shock. “Tom?” she asked, her voice quiet.

He gazed at her with a superior look on his handsome face and said nothing. One corner of his mouth edged upward.

 _He did that to save face with Fawley,_ she told herself as other young scholars began to appear in the courtyard. Tom moved away from her as a couple of other boys from his group of friends arrived. Her heart seemed to twist in her chest. _He needs these allies,_ she thought over and over. _His mother is almost alone otherwise. She has no real allies other than my family. He needs to cultivate these people. Showing affection publicly to me is not usual for nobles. He has to look superior before them…._

Hermione wandered in a circle around the courtyard, hardly paying attention to what was happening around her, locked into her own thoughts as Tom talked with his friends apart from her. The series of thoughts whirled around her head as she tried to console herself.

“Lady Hermione!”

Hermione stopped cold and looked for the source. Harry had just appeared, and beside him were Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Hermione beamed, her heart suddenly a little lighter. She glanced quickly in the direction of Tom, but he was preoccupied with a discussion with his friends. Very well, then. Hermione walked over to the group of _her_ friends.

“How was your visit with Lady Riddle?” Harry asked her.

She almost allowed her face to fall but caught herself. “It is always a pleasure to see her,” she rallied. She considered briefly whether to tell her friends about Merope’s decision to sentence the Carrows. It was not exactly pleasant gossip, but at the same time, Merope certainly did not intend for the order to be secret. She finally said, in a lowered voice, “Lady Merope took action against a pair of vassals who had broken their oaths to her and sworn to the Lestrange family.”

Harry, Neville, and Luna all looked surprised and interested. “What did she do?” Harry asked in an equally quiet voice.

“She sentenced them to death before the entire village of Hangleton. Of course, the Lestranges will protect them, but it _is_ an official sentence. Oh—she named the Lestranges enemies of her family for harboring them and accepting their oaths, too.”

Harry’s green eyes widened. “Did she send out a crier to proclaim it? Mercy on his soul if she did,” he muttered.

“Wizarding nobles use owls,” Neville said. His face colored. “I mean, my parents told me that. They send an owl to the castle of the lord they named as enemy, as well as to any of their own allies who aren’t vassals of theirs. It drops a small scroll… from a distance if there is a danger… and flies away.”

“Well, then, I am certain that she would have done that,” Hermione agreed. “I don’t think she has noble allies other than my parents and her own vassal Lord Severus Snape, but I’m sure she would have sent the message to the Lestranges. There’s little point in making the proclamation if no one outside the village hears of it.”

Tom was still talking with his friends, who were giving Hermione and her own friends blatantly scornful looks. Harry raised his eyebrows in their direction but did not ask Hermione any personal questions. She was grateful; if he had been so unmannerly as that, she would have had to lie.

* * *

At the Slytherin table in the Great Hall that evening, Tom continued to be cool to Hermione. He escorted her into the castle and sat next to her, as he had always done, but he hardly spoke a word to her during the entire meal, talking instead with his male friends in tones that she could barely make out. When he deigned to look at her at all, his handsome face was full of arrogant disdain.

 _Should I make a point of talking with Harry?_ she wondered, picking at her food. _Tom became jealous last year when I did that, and I was not even trying to make him feel that way. Or… would that make matters worse? He responded badly when he was jealous before. He blamed Harry and took it out on him. That’s not what I want._

 _I understand about making alliances, and I even understand about not showing too much intimacy before outsiders… but there is no occasion for him to ignore me like this, or look at me so arrogantly when he does pay attention to me._ Hermione stabbed her roast pork angrily with her knife and picked up a piece to eat. She was not close to crying. She was furious. _This is not going to continue,_ she vowed to herself. _If he really is the leader of those boys, then he should assert his authority and order them to accept our relationship. He doesn’t have to flaunt it in public, like he started to do in the courtyard, but what he’s doing right now is unacceptable, and I am going to tell him that._

Down the table, Adelaide Lestrange and her circle of female associates—all of the Slytherin girls except Hermione, the Greengrass sisters, and Millicent Bulstrode—eyed the other half of the House. Hermione studied them as unobtrusively as she could. There was something in Adelaide’s eyes that she had rarely, if ever, seen before. Some of the girl’s insufferable arrogance was gone, and in its place was a cold wariness. Yes, Merope must have sent word to the Lestranges by owl.

High Master Dumbledore ascended to speak, and the conversations of the scholars filling the hall subsided. He smiled sadly as he began to speak.

“Welcome back to all! I am glad to see all of you back in good health and spirits, and I hope that all who visited family took good cheer from that time with them.” He forced a broader smile on his face, but it reverted to the sad one immediately. “Our families are supremely important, as we all know, and we must remember them every day as we go about our studies here at Hogwarts.” His gaze darted around the Great Hall, not settling on any one person. “It can be hard for us to keep our most solemn oaths when we are presented with other paths. But we are wizards and witches, and our word, more so than the word of our Muggle neighbors—or subjects—carries great power.”

Tom was suddenly paying strict attention. Hermione noticed, with some satisfaction, that he looked uncomfortable. _As he well should,_ she thought smugly. She wondered if Dumbledore knew somehow, despite not having locked his gaze with her or Tom. It was possible that he had deduced something of the truth if he had paid any attention to the Slytherin table. Tom was not exactly making it subtle.

“But at the same time, let us not forget, in our loyalty and devotion, that we are all witches and wizards, and we are all of this land. Many groups of people have come over the centuries. The library, the tapestries and banners in this castle, and the very architecture of the castle itself all reflect this fact. This is a land of great magical power, and it is a terrible tragedy when our magical power as a people is fractured. This has happened before—indeed, it is part of the history of this school itself—and we still bear the scars.” He paused, and a dark look came over his aged face, one that seemed to coincide with a sudden chill in the air and a faint, almost imperceptible dimming of the candlelight throughout the Hall. “We are living in a time of tumult. There is political discord among us, and the Muggles are fighting a war for their throne. Although Divination was not my first speciality, I did attain mastery in this subject… and I fear that the stars are against unity for us as well. Never forget, though, that you are human beings with free will and magical power of your own to shape the world.”

On that dark note, Dumbledore stepped back and took his seat. For another couple of seconds, no one spoke, and then the murmur of talk began anew, just much quieter and more subdued than before.

“That was grim,” Harry muttered to Hermione.

She agreed. “He must have heard. And of course, the Wizards’ Council—by which I mean Lord Malfoy,” she added cynically, “passed their dreadful laws earlier.”

Harry nodded. “My father and godfather told me that Dumbledore doesn’t care much for Divination. He must be very worried since he mentioned the stars.”

“I don’t care much for Divination either,” she said, “because I think it’s rubbish to look for signs in smoke, or to believe that someone’s fate is written into their palm—what of someone who has lost a hand, then?—but Master Dumbledore’s view of it makes more sense. There are large forces that can shape the general direction of events, but we have power too. We’re not….” She struggled to find a metaphor. “We’re not driftwood in a sea.”

Tom returned to his friends, and Hermione noticed with some dismay that his face was set in hard lines.

* * *

Hermione did not have an opportunity to confront Tom that evening; he spent the rest of the night in a corner of the Slytherin common room, surrounded by his friends, conversing in almost inaudible tones with them. She sat apart, reading a book, Harry sitting next to her and silently offering his support. She felt surrounded, between Tom’s friends and the Lestrange-Malfoy side staking out their territories in the common room. Dumbledore’s words appeared to have fallen on deaf ears.

Finally the young people in the common room began to disperse and go to their dormitories to get some rest. Lestrange, Malfoy, and their associates departed first. Tom’s friends left next, leaving him in the room with Hermione and Harry. He sat by himself for a few moments after the last of his pack left. Then he got up and walked gingerly to where Hermione sat. Her features hardened as he approached.

“You may go now, Potter,” he said haughtily.

Beside her, Harry stiffened. “I choose not to, Riddle.”

Tom was taken aback. His black eyebrows narrowed on his forehead. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I order you to go while I speak in private to her.”

Harry reached for his wand. Hermione quickly placed her hand on his wrist, stopping him before he could draw on Tom. She noticed that Tom did not like it one bit when she touched Harry, but she did not particularly care right now.

“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of him,” she said, gazing angrily at him. “He has already seen how you have treated me all evening. I’m sure he doesn’t want to leave me alone with you after witnessing that.”

Tom drew his wand, but he seemed unsure as to whether to point it at Harry or Hermione. He clutched it in his hand, glaring at each of them. “I asked him to protect you from enemies. He has no right to protect you from _me.”_

Outrage instantly flooded Hermione at that. Her wand was pointed directly between his eyes before either Tom or Harry could react. “Oh, is that so?” she snarled. “If I _need_ to be protected from you, then he absolutely should be here.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Tom said, flustered. “I misspoke. I would never harm you. I just meant that he doesn’t need to be here while we talk privately.”

“He will be here.” Her wand remained pointed at Tom’s forehead.

He scowled. “Lower your wand, Hermione.” He reached for it himself and pulled her hand down, glaring back at her. “You must understand what happened in the courtyard. I… lost control. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. It’s not appropriate in public.”

Harry gazed at Hermione in surprise. She remembered that he had not seen the actual precipitating event for Tom’s cold treatment of her.

“It’s as I explained before: They—my friends—think it’s just a typical noble betrothal. They understand that, but when Fawley saw us starting to kiss”—he gazed defiantly at Harry as he spoke the words—“he thought that it meant it was what I wanted too.”

Hermione drew back as if he had hit her. _“What?_ Isn’t it?” she cried.

Tom grimaced, his eyes fluttering shut. “It is! I didn’t mean that. I just meant that Fawley… he _realized_ it. That’s what I meant to say. He realized it. I had to convince him otherwise.”

“So you lied to him.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Considering what you would have to say in order to convince him of this lie, yes, it rather does bother me!” she exclaimed. “I heard what you said in the courtyard, Tom. That ‘I had a _fine_ holiday,’ and that little grin on your face. You must have made me out to be some sort of….” She broke off, fuming.

Tom glared at Harry. “Potter, I want you out of here.”

Hermione shook her head. “Do you really imagine I won’t tell him what you say?”

Harry pulled away. “No,” he said at once. “He’s right. I don’t think I need to be here. You should talk with him, and settle your differences, and I’m getting in the way of that. Good night, Hermione.” With a parting look, he scurried away, closing the door to the boys’ dormitories behind him.

Tom’s eyes were cold and dark. “So is that it? You tell Potter our private business?”

“It is hardly ‘private business’ when you make a point of treating me with contempt before all your little ‘friends,’ and apparently telling them that I have thrown myself at you, or something like that.”

“What does it matter what they think? Why do you care if they believe lies? You should feel smug that you know the truth about our relationship and they don’t.”

“Not if they think I’m a hussy. That’s what you were convincing them of, isn’t it, Tom? That I threw myself at you, and who were you to reject a girl who does that? That’s another thing that they ‘understand’ about nobles, isn’t it?” she said savagely.

“Hermione, I need them! Do you not understand, my mother has _no_ outside allies except your family—and they’re half-Norman Muggles!”

“Are their families allied with your mother now?”

He looked down at his shoes. “My plan is that they will be eventually.”

“And just what exactly does it matter that my parents are half-Norman?” she challenged. “How is that relevant, Tom? I understand that Muggles can’t offer that much to a witch for defense, but why is their ancestry important? Please tell me.”

“You know exactly why it is important.”

“I want you to say it. I want you to tell me, right now, what you discuss with these boys. Explicitly.”

“I have told you, we talk about Slytherin, and—”

Hermione suddenly noticed the clasp on his outer robe. It was solid black, but there was a faint wisp of magic just surrounding it. She reached out and touched the article. While her fingers made contact, it flashed the symbol he had worn in the fall, the Celtic Triquetra in green and silver.

She withdrew her hand, and the button reverted to its black enameled state. She regarded Tom with an even gaze. “You talk about more than Slytherin,” she said. “You’ve persuaded these boys that you are rightfully a prince, haven’t you?”

Tom was silent.

“That is why they have decided to follow you, after you spent your first year at this school being derided and ignored by everyone in your House, _including them._ Being raised to the nobility is not enough to turn them into followers. That merely makes you a social equal—except for the fact that you’re half-blood. They follow you, in spite of your half-blood status, because they see you as _royal,_ as the long-lost Celtic heir that they want to overthrow the Malfoy rule.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“What of it?” he said in a low voice. “It’s _true,_ you know.”

“I’ve said before how dangerous this is, but apparently that means nothing to you,” she said, her voice wobbling. “So what place do I have in this? What of our future? Will they continue to support you when you are married to me? Our children won’t be ‘pure.’ What will your friends think of that, Tom?”

He breathed deeply. “I’m sure I can persuade them when the time comes.”

“I’m not sure of that at all, especially since you’ve tried to have it both ways now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want to enjoy my affections as your fiancée, but you also want these boys to think that you regard me as a Norman slut.”

“Hermione!” he sputtered, appalled.

She made no apologies. “Have you told them about _everything_ we’ve done, Tom?” she asked evenly. “How much do they know?”

“They don’t know about that,” he said at once. “It is none of their business.” He reached for her arm. “On that subject, Hermione, I think we should go to the little room. Otherwise we will go to our separate beds distressed and upset—”

She took a deep breath. She was cold and scared by what she was saying, but she persisted, because it had to be said. “Tom, that is not going to happen again until you tell these boys the truth about us, that you do care about me and want to marry me—in fact, that you regard yourself as _already_ married to me.”

He pulled away and stared at her. “What?”

“You heard what I said.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself protectively. Her wide sleeves dangled down past her waist. “You can’t have this both ways, Tom. I understand if you don’t want to show intense affection to me in public, but I am not going to touch you if you insist upon sneering and smirking at me while huddled with those boys.”

His eyebrows narrowed again. “Is that it, then, Hermione?” he snarled defensively. “The precarious situation of my family matters so little to you? All that you really care about is whether I fawn over you? I thought you were raised noble,” he said sarcastically. “I thought _you_ of all people would understand why personal emotions aren’t as important as political alliances.”

“You do not have to treat me with such open disdain. It isn’t even normal for a nobleman to act that way toward the woman he is betrothed to. What do these boys think of that? They know what is proper. Do they also think that you’re going to break the betrothal?”

“Of course they don’t!”

She gazed at him. “So they think it’s all right because I’m a _half-Norman Mudblood?”_

“Hermione, I asked you before not to call yourself that—”

“No, Tom!” she exclaimed angrily. _“You_ stop _treating_ me as inferior before these boys! You want a political alliance with them. Very well. But they have to accept me as part of the alliance, period. And until you change your behavior toward me before them, I meant what I said: I am not going to let you touch me.” She turned on her heels and stalked toward the entrance to the girls’ dormitories.

Tom remained in the common room for a minute, looking stunned. As she closed the door behind her, the shock in his face dissipated and changed to anger and resentment.

* * *

Hermione stewed in her bed. She was nervous about the ultimatum she had just given Tom. He was a very proud person, and he might decide that he could do without intimacy with her if it had to be strictly on her terms. _But I cannot let him think I accept being snickered at while he persuades those boys that he is merely taking what I’m begging him to take,_ she thought mutinously. _I will not tolerate it. If he cannot treat me as a nobleman treats his lady, then I will stand by my word on this._

She thought again of Harry and his friends. She did not want Tom to take out his jealousy on them, but she did need other friends. She thought about Dumbledore’s words that evening. The goals of Harry’s group, the Friends of the Founders, seemed closest to what Dumbledore wished to happen. She would stick by them, then. Their group was interesting to her anyway, and it needed to be stronger as a force to counter the Wizards’ Council and Armand Malfoy.

* * *

On the other side of the castle walls, Tom sulked. Hermione was being completely unreasonable, he thought. She had to understand that he had acted as he had that evening for a reason. Fawley had caught him in the act of kissing her, and that required an explanation. The Lords of Beltane would not understand or approve of a genuine emotional relationship with someone like Hermione, and his grip on them was precarious enough already. She was completely correct that they had adopted him as their leader only because of his royal bloodline. Tom shifted on his mattress. Hermione was clever, and he had not particularly liked it when she had called him out for that fact.

 _She asked a good question,_ he thought uncomfortably. _What will they think of our marriage? I am not sure they really think it will take place. She was also a bit too close to being correct when she asked if they thought I would end the betrothal. Some of them might think just that. I don’t know. They can’t expect that I would marry her but have a mistress. Witches generally don’t consent to living that way… if a woman expects to have magical children, of course she would insist on them being legitimate… not that I would do that anyway. So they must really think that I plan to break the contract._

Tom did not want to be forced to choose between Hermione and his friends. He needed both. He wished that Fawley had never seen him kissing her—or that he had kept his head and instantly Obliviated the boy of what he had seen. However, he hadn’t, and it would be difficult now to excise those specific memories from all of his friends without damaging anything else that they remembered from the day. He also did not expect that he could maintain his hold over them if they believed that he was sincerely in love with—as she put it—“a half-Norman Mudblood.” The only answer, then, was to do just what he had done that evening, and deceive them into thinking that he merely appreciated Hermione physically. Why couldn’t she _see_ that?

A malicious voice in the back of Tom’s mind whispered to him that his mother had made a verbal agreement to let him out of the contract if he asked. He shoved the voice aside at once. He did want her; he was just angry and annoyed with her right now. _And Mother knows that we’ve consummated the relationship,_ he remembered. _She would not let us break it, knowing that._ That thought gave him some comfort. He turned on his side and closed his eyes. Hermione had the right, currently, to deny him. Perhaps it was even for the best that she did so, since he would otherwise have to account for their moments of affection and intimacy to his friends. But someday they would marry officially, and he would have undoubtedly worked out a plan by that time. With time, his friends would grow more mature and come to accept their marriage, especially if he treated the betrothal more typically and formally in the interim.

* * *

The following morning, Hermione walked into the Slytherin common room gingerly, almost afraid to meet Tom. He was standing there, talking with Professor Slughorn, when she entered the room.

“Lady Hermione!” the professor exclaimed as she approached. He was beaming. “Welcome and good morning to you! I was just telling your fiancé the good news.”

“Oh?” she inquired. Tom was looking pleased indeed, though not exactly to see her. He was not _unhappy_ that she was there, but Slughorn’s news was what had made him so happy.

“Indeed. It is as I predicted: He has been moved to the mastery classes in Arithmancy, Ancient Languages, and Divination.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, her face falling. She had shared Arithmancy and Ancient Languages with Tom in the previous term, when she had been moved to the intermediate class. Now she would be alone in those subjects, without Harry or any of their other friends there to support her.

Tom was happy, though. He gave Hermione a proud look. “It’s quite all right, my dear,” he said loftily. “I’m sure you will join me next year.”

Hermione wanted to slap him. How _dare_ he act so arrogant to her? Had their conversation achieved nothing?

“I fully intend to,” she said, her voice low and almost threatening. Tom drew back almost imperceptibly, surprised at her reaction.

Slughorn did not detect any of their subtle exchange. “Good, good,” he said jovially. “And very fitting! I am sure that someday the two of you will have the most brilliant magical children this country has seen.”

Tom smirked. Hermione again wanted to smack him. When Slughorn was gone, she turned to him with irritation in her brown eyes.

“I had hoped that you would think about what we discussed and see things from my perspective,” she said.

He gazed down at her from his greater height. “Your perspective is too idealistic. I still don’t understand why you care what my allies think about you, since you know that it’s false.”

“I care because I have to watch them—and you!—treat me poorly. It hardly matters if it’s an act on your part. You should not do it for any reason, and you should not tolerate it from them. I meant what I said, Tom,” she warned. “If you cannot seem to control them, to make them accept our relationship, then I am not going to continue as we have been.”

He breathed deeply. “I did think about it overnight, and I think that’s for the best.”

She drew away, stunned. “What?”

“I think that we have been too physically close, and it has made it harder to maintain a normal appearance when we’re in each other’s presence… and it may have clouded our judgment in other respects too. We should take a step back anyway.”

Hermione stared at him, her heart sinking into her gut. “You really don’t want to….”

“I’m accepting your conditions, Hermione,” he said. “I need these alliances. My mother needs these alliances. She certainly isn’t going to get the Carrows back, nor that Pettigrew fellow, if he is even alive. We need strong allies, and since they don’t approve of you, it’s better that I don’t have to act as I did yesterday. We can go back to how we were at the beginning of your first year: friends. It won’t change the future,” he added hurriedly as her face crumpled. “It won’t change anything.”

“It changes _everything,”_ she said, her voice icy and her words broken. “You are choosing these friends over me, however you try to explain it. I have—you _know_ what I’ve done! You know what we promised at that time, too.”

“And I will keep that promise! I wouldn’t touch anyone else, Hermione, if that’s what you are worried about. I took that promise we made seriously, and I think wizards should be held to that vow just as much as witches. I just need these friends.”

“Why, Tom?” she exclaimed. Her face was heated and flushed. “What do you need them for? Why can’t you just accept what you are already going to have? Your mother’s castle is a fortress. You’re going to be lord of that someday. Why isn’t that _enough_ for you?”

“Malfoy and the Council—”

“All right, but why can’t you pursue an alliance with Harry’s group instead?”

“They want something other than what I want,” he said harshly.

“What they want is for Hogwarts to be independent of meddling from the Wizards’ Council.”

“How can that be all? What does it matter to anyone but Dumbledore how much power the school has? Longbottom’s family used to be nobles. Potter’s parents are apparently descended from vassals of Gryffindor. They want more than they have said, but since they apparently won’t say what they do want, I don’t trust them and I don’t want them as allies.”

“Tom—”

“Dumbledore repeated the order from Malfoy that banned Celtic symbols,” he said harshly. “He did that, and before that, he must have seen me wearing them. He knows what I stand for, and he is not with me. What I want is different to what he wants, Hermione. My _friends_ , on the other hand, do want the same thing.”

“And they have a problem with my blood.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Yes,” he spat, reluctant to admit it so baldly.

“That problem is not going to disappear, you know,” she said acidly. “They will have to come to terms with it sooner or later.” She wrenched her arm free of his. “Is it only _their_ problem, Tom? Do you imagine I have missed your constant stream of invective about ‘usurpers,’ ‘invaders,’ and ‘robber lords’? Why am I the exception? Or _am_ I? You were quick to blame my mother’s mother for marrying a Norman knight.”

“Your mother’s mother probably had no choice in the matter,” he said. “Her father probably set it up.”

“Like your mother set us up?”

“What is your point, Hermione?”

“My point is that you are being dishonest, and not just with your friends. If you have such contempt for people with that blood, how can you make an exception for me?”

He stared angrily at her. “Do you want me not to make an exception for you? Maybe I shouldn’t,” he said cruelly. “Since you clearly care so little about the well-being of this country, since you put your emotions ahead of political necessity, since you favor a peace that comes at the expense of my people, maybe I shouldn’t make an exception for you.”

She stepped back from him. “Go to the Great Hall, Tom,” she said. “I do not require you to escort me there.”

He glared at her before turning away in a whirl of robes.


	21. Magical Barriers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response to the previous chapter! I am afraid that their problems are not resolved in this one, and I feel I should warn that their drama and distance will be an ongoing subplot for a while yet. They each need to develop in different ways, and other plots need to get moving, before I can bring you the endgame and tie all the threads back together. Thanks again for sticking with this story!

Tom did not so much as incline his head to look at Hermione when she entered the Great Hall. She did not particularly expect him to—she had not seen any indication in her previous year and a half of knowing him that he would instantly back down from a hard position he had taken—but it still offended her. She was in the right on this, and she knew it. Alliances of friendship were important, of course, but alliances of family should always take precedence unless there was a very good reason against it. Betrayal by a family member was essentially the only reason Hermione could think of for that, and nothing she had done was even in the proximity of a betrayal. Perhaps a Muggle noble could order his wife—or betrothed—to accept his friends irrespective of how she was treated, and would consider defiance of that command a betrayal, but Hermione had realized that the wizarding nobility regarded witches very differently to how Muggle lords regarded women. The wizarding nobility’s value for family was sincere and consistent, since female members of the family were placed higher than a lord’s friends.

On the other hand, Hermione had also concluded that the consistency in their value for family was directly linked with this focus on “purity of blood”—magical blood, in the case of most of them, or in Tom’s case and perhaps that of his friends, ethnic “purity.” That was the dark side… but Tom would have to come to terms with it. And if he kept these friends, so would they.

Haughtily she sat down at the Slytherin table next to him, but she did not allow any part of her body to touch him, and she paid no attention to him. He ignored her as well. Hermione ordered her breakfast verbally and began to eat once it appeared at her place.

In a few minutes, Harry emerged. He glanced from Hermione to Tom and vice versa, silently assessing the situation. Then he took his seat next to her and gave her a kind smile. To Hermione’s surprise, Tom did not glare at Harry. He ignored both of them through the entire meal.

* * *

In a way, Hermione was relieved that she did not have to interact with Tom in most of her subjects now—at least for today. She did realize in the back of her mind that she would miss him in those classes once they had made up, but she expected to advance to the mastery classes next year just as he had. In the meantime, she would not be distracted from her work by the chill that currently lay between them.

In Potions and Alchemy, one of the classes that she did still share with Tom, she was rather taken aback when he paired up with Marcus Flint. After she and Harry had advanced to the intermediate level in this subject, Tom had insisted on being partnered with her, leaving Harry to Flint.

Harry observed the proceedings as silently as he had done at breakfast. Without a word, he took his place next to Hermione at the potions table. Hermione was relieved; despite her angry proclamations in the argument with Tom, she did not want to discuss the situation with Harry or anyone else. To do so would mean explaining just what she had said in her ultimatum, which she _absolutely_ did not want to do—or it would mean lying about that. It was apparent that she and Tom were having difficulties, in any case, and Harry did not ask for the details.

While they worked on their potion, Harry asked her, in a low voice, “Would you like to come to another _meeting_ tomorrow evening?”

Hermione did not need clarification. She nodded swiftly. “I am very interested in the group and would like to continue attending these meetings.”

He smiled. “It’s at the same place as before, then, and same time of day.”

“I will be there.”

* * *

The pattern continued for the rest of that day and through the following one: Tom hardly spoke to Hermione, and what little he did say were perfunctory comments about the type of magic they were studying that day. Hermione decided to let him stew in his own cauldron. He had been the one to say that they should return to being friends. If he really meant that, then he knew what the terms would be for her.

At last the time of the Friends of the Founders meeting arrived. Haughtily Hermione exited the Slytherin common room. Tom was deep in conversation in a dark corner with his friends, but when she stood up to leave, his head shot up and his gaze instantly fixed on her. She ignored his glare as she opened the door to meet Ginevra Weasley just outside. Harry had already gone to the meeting. For the sake of preventing damage to Hermione’s reputation, they had decided that they had better go to these meetings separately, and that Hermione should be seen meeting a witch. No one else in the House except for Tom knew of the group’s existence, so the rest of the Slytherins should think that she was spending time with female friends.

Hermione just hoped that Tom would not complain to his friends about what she was really doing. She did not trust those boys not to spread the most defamatory interpretation possible, even if so doing would tarnish Tom by association.

Along the way Ginevra had hardly a word to say. She seemed to be studying Hermione in order to decide what to think of her. Hermione decided she should do the same. At the previous meeting, Ginevra had been a bit of a mystery to Hermione, wary and distrustful of Slytherins in general but apparently more open-minded than her brothers. _Come to think of it,_ Hermione thought, _why aren’t her brothers going to these meetings?_ Finally Hermione addressed Ginevra with just that question.

The young witch frowned in contemplation. “Well, three of my brothers are not at Hogwarts anymore,” she said. “My brothers Fred, George, and Ronald, who are here, don’t seem very interested.” There was a certain degree of disdain in her words as she spoke of them. “Fred and George are twins, and they are more interested in opening a shop. I do not know _what_ Ron—Ronald—wants to do,” she said scornfully. “He follows them, mostly. But they all have little interest in political matters.”

“But you do.”

She gave Hermione a sideways look. “I suppose this must be outside the experience of a young lady such as yourself,” she began, a barely perceptible sardonic note in her voice, “but my family have had a… peculiar view of family honor, in my opinion.”

“How so?” Hermione asked, ignoring the faint jibe.

“Well, we lost our title when the Muggle Conqueror named Armand Malfoy his viceroy for wizards and witches. My great-grandparents would not swear to him. Since then, Weasleys have been farmers and have taken pride in this condition. My father has this view. He thinks that ambitious people, or rather, people who aren’t satisfied with what they have, are not fully trustworthy. However, I would like to help change the situation _and_ help my family.”

Hermione considered that, thinking of her fight with Tom in which she had accused him of precisely that. However, it seemed to her that there was quite a difference between wanting to regain a noble title that one’s family had held merely a couple of generations ago, and wanting to become king when one’s ancestors had not held a throne in six centuries— _and_ when one already was heir to a wealthy fief. Wanting to change the political situation to take some of the power of the Wizards’ Council away, however, was a different matter, and Hermione could not fault Tom for _that_ desire. She wondered what the Weasley family in general thought about that goal.

“What about your other brothers?” she asked Ginevra. “Do they want to improve their lot or change the political situation?”

“I think a couple of them do. My eldest brother, William, is adventuring in France. I don’t think it has anything to do with the Muggles of Normandy,” she said at once. “He said he’s trying to track down some goblins who worked with Gryffindor during his lifetime and”—she lowered her voice—“bring them back here, for our side. Charlie is saving money to go to Wales, where there is a lord who breeds dragons, Lord Rhygar. He intends to enter this wizard’s service. And Percival was named a master last year and he is currently helping my father on our farm. I think he wants to become a knight, but he is having trouble getting a noble benefactor. He’s even considering Muggle lords now, but he would probably have to take a side in the Muggle conflict if he did. I hope he doesn’t do that, but I do respect him for his ambitions.”

Hermione recalled that Ginevra’s Sorting had taken a long time, and with this information, she believed she could guess what other House the Hat had considered for her. That was interesting indeed, considering how much suspicion Ginevra seemed to have for Slytherins.

They reached the seventh floor and the corridor where the Come-and-Go Room lay. The girls entered the room and sat next to Luna Lovegood. Harry and Neville presided, and when everyone had arrived, they called the meeting to order.

“My friend Neville has an important announcement to make,” Harry declared, as Neville stood by looking uncomfortable and awkward. “But before he does, I have to remind everyone that we have taken an oath of silence regarding the existence of this group—at least, telling anyone who is a Malfoy ally. I must ask all of you to speak to _no one_ of what Neville is going to say.” He hesitated for a moment. “When this thing happens, it will not be secret—as you will see—but we can’t risk letting anyone know in advance that it is going to happen. The Wizards’ Council have been bold lately about issuing extreme orders and they would try to prevent it… or punish good people for even talking about it.”

There were murmurs of agreement and assent.

“Very well. Neville,” Harry said, gesturing to his friend to speak.

Next to Hermione, Ginevra perked up almost imperceptibly as Neville took Harry’s place. The look on her face was a bit hard for Hermione to read—it was not the obvious look of a fancy, but there was definitely respect there. That was interesting. Luna Lovegood was just as interested in Harry as before, her wide blue eyes never leaving his face, but the ferocity that Hermione had seen in her face in the previous meeting was gone, replaced with the self-assured complacency that she possessed. Perhaps the two witches had come to an understanding, then.

Neville Longbottom cleared his throat and began to explain. “My father, the mayor of Hogsmeade, is going to summon the farmholders and heads of guilds to his house for a vote this spring about whether to acclaim Master Dumbledore as lord and join Hogsmeade with Hogwarts.” He looked down at his shoes. “They expect to win the vote, but as Harry said, if this got out early, Lord Malfoy would try to stop it from happening and would probably seize the village.”

The young people present in the room digested this.

“I don’t understand how that works,” said Ernest Macmillan, the Hufflepuff boy. “If Master Dumbledore isn’t a lord, how can it be legal to swear to him as one?”

Neville looked troubled by the question. He did not seem to have an answer, and neither did Harry. But Hermione did know the answer to that, and she spoke up eagerly. “The precedent comes from the days of the Founders,” she explained in the same tone of voice that she used for the professors. “They were all lords and ladies. If you read the Codex of Wizarding Law, it actually declares that the High Master of Hogwarts is lord of the castle—or lady, if it’s a witch. The Malfoys ran Godric Gryffindor out of his personal estate, but he was Lord of Hogwarts in addition to Lord of Godric’s Hollow, and they never abolished that title. Since Armand Malfoy arrived, they haven’t used a noble title, but the law does say that. I read about it in histories of Hogwarts.”

Harry and Neville looked relieved. “Thank you, Lady Hermione,” Harry said politely, making sure to use her title before the group.

Hermione herself was still troubled by a couple of things, and she decided to speak up now. “There is one thing that worries me, though,” she said haltingly. “The Wizards’ Council issued an order recently that anything they say—which is to say, anything Armand Malfoy says—carries the same weight as the Codex of Law. What is to prevent them from stripping Dumbledore of authority to accept anyone’s oath of fealty and seizing the village anyway?”

“Nothing,” Harry said glumly. “They can do that if they choose to. But Neville’s parents hope that they won’t do it. Everything they intend to do is legal and normal. Hogsmeade is not currently part of any lord’s fief, so they have a right to swear to one… and since you just told us all that the High Master of Hogwarts was never stripped of a title, it wouldn’t be against the law for Dumbledore to accept someone’s oath. If they retaliated, it would look really vindictive.”

After the meeting adjourned, Hermione turned to Ginevra. “Perhaps your brother Percival should enter Dumbledore’s service after this happens.”

Ginevra did not look convinced. “I will mention it to him after the Longbottoms have held their vote. He may be interested, perhaps.”

* * *

Tom still did not deign to acknowledge Hermione that evening. Evidently he had figured out where she had gone. _Let him simmer,_ she fumed as she went to bed. _The Friends of the Founders are at least planning to make alliances—or their family members are, anyway. What can he boast of with his little group? He thinks the Friends have another agenda, but what can it be other than to restore their own lost status? Ginevra all but told me that that’s what she wants for her own family. There is nothing suspicious about that._ She remembered Ginevra’s possible interest in Neville Longbottom. Yes, she definitely stood to benefit if the Longbottoms’ actions ended up raising their status and she pursued the young man.

 _Am I thinking of this strictly as a noble-raised person would?_ Hermione wondered. _Ginevra was almost placed in Slytherin—I absolutely believe that—and if the Hat was inclined to put her there of its own accord, she actually is more Slytherin-like than I am. But does she have an agenda other than social climbing? For Neville’s sake, I hope she does._ Hermione was sure that the awkward, shy young man would welcome the attentions of a determined witch, so she hoped that Ginevra actually did like him. _But this is none of my business,_ she reminded herself. She was glad that Harry had not asked her about the troubles in her betrothal to Tom, and she was not going to insert herself into her friends’ personal affairs either.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Armand and Abraxas Malfoy sat in their vast parlor as Arcturus Black was admitted to the room. The fourth member of the Wizards’ Council, Rodolphus Lestrange, was not present, by design—Abraxas’s design. He was certain that if they had invited Lestrange, his wife Bellatrix would insist upon attending as well. Lestrange imagined himself a strong husband in the classical and Germanic mold, a patriarch who had little use for the female-accepting traditions of the ancient Celtic culture of this country, but in truth Lady Bellatrix could get her way quite readily on most matters. Even worse according to Abraxas’s reckoning, she was a terrible influence on him. She would persuade him to her strident, violent ideas especially well, Abraxas thought, since it was their family that would be the topic of this meeting with Black—and that was unacceptable in this case. It was already going to be a challenge for him and Black to persuade Father to a moderate response to Lady Riddle’s provocation, one that would not provoke an uprising. The two Lestranges together would reinforce and exacerbate Father’s worst tendencies and outnumber the more reasonable voices. Abraxas had therefore neglected to tell Lestrange of this meeting. Inevitably they would have to do so, but better to present the outcome as a _fait accompli—_ and a gift of sorts.

Arcturus Black was seated. He regarded the two Malfoys with suspicion and reserve.

Armand spoke first. “Welcome, kinsman. As you know, the blood-traitor Riddle lady has named our ally and kin Lord Lestrange an enemy, because he accepted the oath of the Carrows.”

Black nodded stiffly.

“This cannot stand unanswered, of course,” Malfoy continued. “It is true, of course, that the Carrows broke their prior oaths to the Gaunt family, but due to the law that we recently passed, I can pardon them, and I will do so.”

“My lord father has already signed a pardon to that effect,” Abraxas added.

Armand smirked. “Of course, I do not expect the blood-traitor to lift her declaration against the Lestrange family. Therefore we have called you here to discuss retaliation against her for this outrage.”

Black glared outward, then instantly rearranged his face. “Oh?” he said mildly. “What do you have in mind, my lord?”

“I want to proclaim her in rebellion against the Wizards’ Council for naming a family seated on it as her enemy,” Malfoy said baldly. “I cannot actually accuse her of treason, since she is not sworn to Lestrange, but I can vouch for Lestrange and name her a rebel. This justifies removing the half-blood and Mudblood from Hogwarts, of course.”

This was exactly why Abraxas had not wanted the Lestranges present: They would have seconded this view, and Father would have taken shelter under their superior numbers. But Abraxas could see that Black thought as he did about this idea.

“I have… concerns… about that, my lord, with all respect,” Black said haltingly. “Even if you do pardon the Carrows, there will be sympathy for Lady Riddle’s actions, because they _did_ break their oaths. Lady Riddle’s brother may have been a loathsome lord, but they continued to avoid their obligations to the family even after she assumed the title.”

“She is a blood-traitor who bore a half-blood son and betrothed him to a Mudblood. That is reason enough to break an oath to her.”

“Many people will not agree,” Black said cautiously. “And another thing, there is a tradition in old English culture that nobles may name enemies among other nobles as long as it is not treason against one’s own lord. There will be sympathy for her, and if you make war on her for this, it risks expanding to include more than just her.”

“You do know much about your English traditions,” Armand sneered. “What did your people call it? Weregild?”

“That is invoked after a murder,” Black said, “but it is another of the same kind of custom.”

“We should stamp out uncivilized customs like that,” Armand declared. “My allies and I attempted to establish clear lines of authority in this country, as opposed to that anarchic body that you used to have. I do not want to coddle this, and I will not. My mind is made up. I am going to declare her a rebel, expel the half-blood and Mudblood from Hogwarts for _their_ acts of defiance, and try to seize the woman’s castle.” He folded his arms and stared out from Black to his son and back again.

Abraxas’s face instantly became calm. “Very well, my lord father,” he said in soothing tones. “Your word is law.”

“That it is.” He summoned Dobby the house-elf to bring them some wine.

Abraxas observed Arcturus Black’s face as they drank their wine. The man was appalled at Lord Malfoy’s behavior, clearly. Would Black support him if he acted against his own father? It was a risk….

Armand had a second goblet of wine. The other wizards observed as he grew drowsy from the drink. Abraxas made up his mind. When his father rose from his seat to get something off a shelf, he decided to act. With a quick glance at Arcturus, he drew his wand and pointed it at his father’s back.

 _“Stupefy,”_ he whispered. Across the room, Armand collapsed onto a sofa. Abraxas arose and went to where his father lay.

Black was gazing at Abraxas in surprise and respect as the latter wizard cast the complex charm to implant a false memory into someone’s mind. Abraxas felt ashamed of what he was doing, but clearly, it had to be done. His father was not acting sensibly anymore. He felt guilty for his own part in giving him that accursed potion that he regularly drank.

“What came over me?” Armand muttered as his son helped him back into his chair.

“You took a fall,” Abraxas explained. “It must have been the wine.”

“Do you think that elf—”

“No, Father, I am sure it is just that this is a strong vintage. I feel a bit tipsy myself,” he lied.

“Ah,” said the elder Malfoy. “Well, I thank you for assisting me. Now, as we were discussing, you think that Burke will consent to marrying the Riddle lady with my new law in effect?”

Abraxas prayed that Black would go along. To his relief, Black instantly spoke in agreement.

“I do,” he said, giving Abraxas a private but pointed look. “The law, as I understand it, would transfer lordship of the estate to a wizard husband of Lady Riddle. Burke’s principal objection to the marriage was that he would have been a consort. If he was being sincere, then this should remove that objection.”

“He also cited you,” Armand said. “He wanted to get your permission first. I am to assume that you will give it?”

Arcturus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

“We will have to check on the status of her marriage to that Muggle,” Abraxas said. “Even if they divorced, she made her wedding vows as a witch, with magical power behind a sworn oath, so she cannot remarry if _he_ divorced _her_ —unless she is willing to annul the vows, which she surely wouldn’t _._ ”

“If he is still alive, it will be no trouble to kill him,” Armand said evilly. “And if she refuses to marry Burke, then she will have to hide in that castle, with her son and the Mudblood. That is an act of rebellion.”

Abraxas had modified his father’s memories in which he entertained this very set of ideas. Clearly they had an appeal for him anyway. Abraxas hoped that it would not come to that. Surely the woman would see that it was better for her to consent to the marriage than to have to withdraw her son and Granger from Hogwarts and hide behind the magically protected walls of her castle indefinitely.

* * *

Arcturus Black soon sent the Malfoys a letter stating that Caractacus Burke had at last agreed to marry Merope Riddle under the terms of Lord Malfoy’s new law. Abraxas was immensely relieved. This was how things should be, tense situations calmed by traditional political plays rather than war.

A couple of days later, he received a second owl. Tom Riddle Sr. was alive, he had divorced Lady Riddle, and he was remarried to a Muggle woman named Cecilia. Abraxas hated to receive that news. He did not like the thought of widowing someone, even a Muggle, merely as a means to an end. He himself had no feud with this Muggle… but it was necessary, unfortunately. They had no children, at least.

Abraxas presented his plan to Rodolphus Lestrange, who was pleased at the “gifts” that the rest of the Wizards’ Council had presented him following their informal meeting at Malfoy Manor. He also liked the idea of his nemesis being under the thumb of a Wizards’ Council ally and was eager to participate in the murder of the Muggle Riddle. Abraxas decided to let Lestrange do the honors. The less blood on his own hands, the better. Burke himself wanted to tag along, and Malfoy had no particular objection, he supposed.

Thus it was that one moonless night that winter, the trio of wizards sneaked into the village where Riddle and his new wife lived. They had a manor house befitting of a Muggle knight. Abraxas wondered why this Muggle was not fighting for either of the Muggle pretenders to the throne, as a knight… but some of the nobles were neutral. Evidently Riddle’s lord was among them. It was a pity; a death in battle would be easy to arrange and seemed somehow less sordid than this dirty business.

Riddle’s manor was on a hill inside the walls that surrounded his lord’s much grander castle. From a distance, the wizards studied the entrance to the smaller house. There were posted guards, but they would pose little trouble for a company of well-armed Muggles, let alone people of magic. Of course, the knight’s manor house was behind the walls of his lord’s castle. These guards were meant to keep out peasants who worked for the lord. The wizards advanced forward—

Lestrange was the most eager. He had bounded forward, wand drawn, ready to kill, but some unseen force had thrown him back violently. He landed on his back, cursing fluently in both French and English.

Burke and Malfoy exchanged wary glances. Aware of the expectations he had as the social inferior of Malfoy, Burke edged forward to the spot where it seemed Lestrange had been flung back. He put a hand forward and met an invisible but solid barrier. It crackled against his skin with what could only be magic, not that there was any doubt about that. He drew his wand and began to cast spells into the air and at the ground, trying to diagnose what sort of shield kept them from entering.

Finally he pulled back and turned grimly to Malfoy and Lestrange. “There is a blood ward on this property,” he said.

Lestrange rubbed the small of his back. “That bitch put it up!”

Burke nodded. “She must have. No one else would care. She must have anticipated that your lordships would try to pressure her into a marriage.”

“Shrewd bitch,” Lestrange repeated.

“What kind of blood ward is it?” Abraxas Malfoy asked Burke.

“It’s a strong one, that’s for certain. I think that she must have used her own blood to anchor it. The only thing stronger than that is a sacrifice of one’s life. This kind of ward will protect the inhabitants of this property from any witch or wizard except her own kin. It protects not just the Riddle man, but also the lord and anyone inside these walls.”

Lestrange considered that. “The Gaunts kept it in the family for a long time, but occasionally they did intermarry. Whom are they related to?”

“No one close enough to get through, your lordship,” Burke said regretfully. “Blood charms this strong will only allow the closest of kin entry. That typically means a parent, sibling, or child.”

“You said ‘any witch or wizard.’ Does it let Muggles in? It must, if this knight expects to conduct business or admit his own lord to the house,” Lestrange said. A glint appeared in his eye. “Why don’t we find a Muggle and put him under the Imperius Curse?”

Abraxas and Burke exchanged looks and tried to avoid showing their contempt for Lestrange. “That will not work,” Abraxas said. “A titled Muggle like this one, even a knight, would not allow people to enter his home carrying weapons. Their guards take weapons and even tools away from visitors of lower status. The lord could go inside bearing a sword, but we cannot get at him either, since he is also behind the ward.”

Lestrange was downcast. “That’s a pity,” he grumbled. “I suppose we have to hope that he goes to war or otherwise leaves this property.”

Abraxas thought about it. “We could… but I will see if I can think of anything else.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

It had been two weeks since Hermione had fought with Tom, and he was still barely speaking to her. He had returned to his perfunctory polite acts of courtesy such as escorting her around the castle, but their intimacy had vanished. Each night she second-guessed herself as she lay in bed, the weight of the day’s events pressing against her mind.

 _I’m going to marry him anyway,_ she comforted herself, twisting the emerald ring on her finger like a good-luck charm. _We’re going to marry. He will surely make amends with me long before our wedding, once he has reconciled himself to the inevitable. I just hope that he won’t…._ Hermione was unwilling to complete that thought in words. The idea of Tom going to other girls for what she was no longer giving him made her feel physically sick. _He never did before me,_ she thought. _He did not even have an innocent sweetheart. He also said himself that he would not touch anyone else—promised it, in fact—and he knows what the vows of a wizard mean. He also knows that he can have me again if he will just take a firm hand with those friends of his and tell them that they have to accept me._ Somewhat comforted by this, Hermione plumped her pillow and tried to go to sleep.

Her dreams were turbulent and distressing. A great serpent slithered its way down a dark corridor, taking what Hermione knew in her dream was an inexorable path toward her. She tried to escape it, but finally, the nightmare reached the inevitable conclusion that all dreams of being chased reached.

Right before the serpent found her, the dream shifted as her brain recoiled from the terrible imagining. Now she was watching as a man she did not recognize stared at a witch whose back was turned. Hermione knew the witch was Merope, her own second mother, and she wanted to call out to warn her that the man meant her harm, but her voice was muted. When Merope finally turned around, the wizard had vanished into the ether of dreams.

The dream shifted again, presenting Hermione with an image of Adelaide Lestrange. Strangely, Hermione did not feel the bitter anger toward this girl in the dream that she did in real life. Adelaide was staring into space, unaware of Hermione’s presence, and although Hermione did not know what was wrong, in the dream she felt pity for her enemy in waking life.

She then slipped into deep sleep and remembered no more dreams. Time passed, and the next thing she was aware of was the magical bell that she had set for herself waking her up. She dressed, still brooding over the dreams. The serpent dream was surely a reflection of the fear that Tom would find the alleged basilisk of Slytherin, as well as general anxiety over her relationship with him. She definitely knew that Merope had enemies. What the dream about Adelaide meant, if anything, she could not begin to guess.

 _Divination is mostly rubbish,_ she told herself as she left her bedchamber. _Dreams do not always mean anything, and it’s impossible to sort out which ones do and which ones don’t._ She walked down the corridor and entered the Slytherin common room.

Professor Slughorn was standing in the room, several students gathered around him. Tom was among them.

“The ritual will take place on the first of May, of course,” he was explaining to them. “As you undoubtedly know, it will result in a season-long charm of good fortune—a blessing, our ancestors called it—upon the task that you choose to charm, or bless, during the rite. Traditionally, due to the ancient significance of Beltane, this is a romantic relationship,” Slughorn said, with a wink at Tom and a couple of others.

Tom did not respond even with a smile. Hermione felt a pang.

“However,” Slughorn continued, “there is no requirement in the ritual that it must be. If you are interested in taking part in this ritual, there will be special tutoring in the advanced magic that it will entail.”

Tom smiled. “I am certainly interested, and I am honored to be selected for this, Professor.”

Hermione stood in the shadowed threshold of the door leading to the girls’ dormitories. Slughorn did not notice her, and she was not sure that Tom did either.

When Slughorn left the room, she took a deep breath and walked forward. “Congratulations, my lord,” she said, her tones chilly even to her ears. “I remember you told me that you wanted to do this.” She hoped that the reminder of what their relationship ought to be would soften him to her again.

Tom gazed at her smugly. “Thank you, _my lady._ I believe it is time for breakfast, though.” He offered her his arm without an iota of warmth, but she took it anyway. She was not going to be intimate with him in any fashion until he changed his attitude, but she still longed for his touches, even those that meant little.


	22. Beltane Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I apologize for the delay with this one. I struggled with this chapter, for various reasons, and I'm not sure that it does what I want it to do - but I've pored over it until I'm tired of it, so now I'm offering it up to you.
> 
> Thank you as always for your support of this story!

Tom was frustrated about many things.

For one, it had been more than a month since Hermione had issued her ultimatum and stormed off in anger, and since then, they had barely spoken. They certainly had not been affectionate in any way. The old holiday of Imbolc had come and gone this week. He had meant to tell Hermione about it and observe it with her, as another traditional practice that was already almost forgotten and that the current wave of invaders would surely love to stamp out for good… but instead, he had lit a magical candle, to observe the gradual return of daylight, alone. That seemed somehow ominous to him. He had not expected that she would actually be this stubborn when she had made that statement. He had been sure that she would miss him, feel bad, and come to him within a week at most. Now, Tom was reluctantly having to consider the possibility that she meant what she said and that she would not back down.

 _What does she expect to achieve?_ he thought grouchily. _She knows she is going to marry me anyway. My mother made me that promise about letting me out, but I’m sure her parents did not._ Tom wondered why he thought of that again. He did not want to do it… and he remembered, once again, that his mother apparently knew that they had consummated their engagement. She would not _let_ him end it unless there was a very good reason.

 _Why am I thinking about this?_ Tom wondered again. He forced his thoughts to center on Hermione. _I just do not understand what she thinks she will accomplish. If something does not change, then someday we’ll have to swear to a Malfoy. The Council has already tried to seize even more power than they did eighty years ago when they placed themselves where the Wizengamot used to sit. They don’t even pretend to observe the centuries of wizarding law—laws that this nation developed before they ever trampled French dirt into English soil. Armand Malfoy has made himself an uncrowned king, and if someone does not stop this, Hermione and I will live at the whim of a tyrant. I have to be that person. I have the bloodline, and I have the ambition. Hermione seems to think that the problems will disappear on their own. They won’t._

Tom’s thoughts shifted to the little group that Hermione occasionally met with, the one with Potter’s friends from other Houses of Hogwarts. He scoffed to himself. If Hermione—if _Potter,_ for that matter—truly believed that their entire goal was to help Hogwarts, then they were definitely practicing willful self-delusion. It was obvious that there was more to it than that. The Longbottoms were certainly trying to recover their own lost status, for which Tom could not fault them. Potter’s parents were apparently descended from vassals of Godric Gryffindor. But what _they_ hoped to achieve, Tom could not decide. They were subjects of Lucius Malfoy, and an uprising in Godric’s Hollow had already failed years ago.

 _Could they be planning to involve Hogsmeade and Hogwarts in a repeat attempt?_ Tom wondered. That, at least, made some sense. With outside help, an uprising might actually succeed in ousting Lord Lucius from Gryffindor’s castle. _But for how long?_ Tom thought. _He will go to his father and grandfather, and they will crack down. This is very different to Hogsmeade, a free town, swearing to Dumbledore. They have the right to do that. An uprising in Godric’s Hollow would be treason, and the Malfoys would lay siege to the town if it succeeded… and clearly, they took over Gryffindor’s castle from the outside once already, when they first came. I wonder about that… but it must not be that difficult to do. The Potters must know this. What do they_ want? _What does that loafer Sirius Black want?_

Then, too, what was the Weasley girl doing? Was she merely out to attach herself to one of the boys who stood to profit from it if their (possible) mad schemes succeeded? Why were none of her brothers involved? _Or are they?_ Tom thought darkly. The older brothers might be involved from outside the school. The younger brothers, the ones who were still at Hogwarts, were a useless lot, in his opinion. The youngest boy seemed to be good for nothing except whinging, and Tom had taken the twins’ measure in his first year of school. They at least had ambitions of earning gold, but they did not care how. They would do business with the Malfoy regime, Tom was convinced, if they thought that was the pathway to wealth. There was no guiding principle, no care for how wizarding society in England, Scotland, and Wales should be ordered. In Hangleton Village, there were a couple of tradesmen—people that Tom’s own mother had empowered to work a trade instead of working the fields—who always tried to get the better of their liege lady on their taxes. The Weasley twins were typical money-grubbing peasants of this sort, and Tom had little use for them. If _he_ had still been without his title, it would have been different, but that was because he had the royal bloodline, and therefore he would have been merely taking what he should have had anyway.

Tom sighed. He really did not know what the supposed “Friends of the Founders” were up to. There were a couple of obvious possibilities, but they really felt _too_ obvious. Tom felt that there had to be something big that he was not seeing, but he could not begin to guess what. He doubted he could find out by cornering one of the Weasleys at Hogwarts and performing Legilimency; he did not expect that the youngest ones knew such information.

He turned to thoughts of his own group of allies and friends. As much as he hated to admit it, he did not have any accomplishments of his own either. He built castles in the air with the boys, but he had not even secured alliances with their families for his mother. Was the reason his betrothal to Hermione? Tom really hoped it was not that. That sort of thing should not matter for alliances of friendship and mutual defense unless the other family was an enemy of someone, and Hermione’s family could not possibly be an enemy of any of his friends’ families. They were Muggles. Wizard nobles probably would not consider them their equals—and he could not really blame them for that—but they were not enemies.

 _Perhaps the boys have not talked to their families,_ he thought. _Perhaps they need direction from me. I thought it was clear what I wanted, but they are followers, so perhaps they just need to be told what to do in explicit terms._ That was what he would do, then. He would make his intentions clear. He would assure them and their families that this was not a game, that it was serious and real.

 _What about Hermione?_ Tom asked himself once more. _Leave her be for now, or try to persuade her to return to me?_ He thought about Hermione’s complaints. She had not appreciated the implications he had made to Fawley, which he supposed he could understand… he wished it had not been necessary to make them… but he did believe it had been. And if his friends caught them in a compromising situation again, he would need to imply the same sort of thing again. Better, then, for things to remain as they were for now. It hardly mattered. They would marry anyway someday. This was not a choice between Hermione and his friends. If he deferred his pleasure for now, and focused on alliance-building, he would have both— _and_ he could change the status of English wizards and witches.

* * *

Hermione missed Tom’s company especially strongly when the first hints of spring began to appear and people began to make day-long visits to Hogsmeade instead of quick trips to avoid the cold and snow. He did not always go at all, preferring instead to remain in the castle with his friends, and when he did go, he and his group disappeared into the darkest corner of the tavern. It was as if Hermione was not even there, and she felt angry and sick whenever she saw him lead his besotted flock to a table. _–A Round Table?_ she thought darkly. That seemed to be what he wanted.

She wondered what else they discussed. The fabled Chamber of Slytherin, no doubt—and whenever Hermione thought of that, she worried. Had Tom’s interests not been so dangerous, she would have scoffed and ignored his secret meetings. If he wanted to look for a hidden chamber in Hogwarts, let him! But there was the complication that that chamber might contain a deadly magical beast. Hermione would have considered it her responsibility to approach him and try to urge him against the pursuit, but she reflected on the fact that when they _were_ close, she had done just that, and he had ignored her advice.

Hermione found that as winter changed into spring, she went to Hogsmeade less and less. When she did go, it was either with Luna or Ginevra. They would meet up with Harry and the rest of his group. There they discussed school and spoke in hushed voices about other matters if Malfoy’s group was nowhere in sight. Neville’s parents were going to hold the vote in their home as soon as spring was in full bloom.

Hermione was worried about that too. Although it was legal and ordinary, Armand Malfoy would likely do something in retaliation. _What else can he do?_ she mused one day. _He has already usurped lawmaking power to himself alone. What’s next?_

She was powerless to stop Tom from pursuing his dangerous interests and powerless to prevent the Wizards’ Council from punishing the “Friends of the Founders” or their families for what Hogsmeade would likely do soon. _I am the one person who has ties to both of Armand Malfoy’s groups of enemies,_ she thought uneasily. _Tom really has nothing to do with Harry anymore. I’m it, and I was already a target for him because of my blood and the challenge that my parents and Lady Merope raised to his first ruling about Hogwarts. I need to protect myself better than I am. Other people cannot do it all for me. I need to focus on my studies, and on achieving mastery of magic._

* * *

To that end, Hermione started to spend more time in the library. It was not as if she was avoiding the place—far from it—but she could always read more. She sat in her bedchamber one afternoon in spring, a parchment before her. It was going to become a schedule. Hermione frowned as she dipped her quill in ink. It was interesting indeed how much time was available in the day if she did not set aside private time for her relationship with Tom. The block of time in the early evening, which she had often spent with him in the small room, was marked “Library.” An hour and a half each day, then. That might possibly be sufficient. Hermione could never be quite sure. She rolled up the parchment and placed it in her satchel.

That evening, she left her room again and strode through the Slytherin common room without fear. Draco Malfoy was there, with three boys nearby. Across the room were Adelaide Lestrange and her circle of friends. Hermione ignored them, merely making sure that no one cursed her or rose to follow her. She observed as she passed through the room that Tom’s friends were there, but Tom himself was not. Harry was not in the room, but she supposed that he was likely with Neville—or perhaps Luna. She opened the door, exited the common room, and closed it behind her.

As she walked quickly down the corridors, she kept her wand at the ready. No one had followed her immediately, but if someone had observed that she was alone and decided to follow her just after she had left, it would be easy to catch her. However, she made it to the library undisturbed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed open the huge doors and entered the grand space.

Hermione had a study plan and quickly made her way to the section of the library about transfiguration. She selected a large tome from the shelf and carried it to a chair next to one of the tall stained-glass windows. Soon she was absorbed in the book. She almost did not notice when a tall black-haired wizard walked by.

Tom stopped cold as he saw who else was in the library mere feet away. He glowered at her, clutching an armful of books close to his chest. She set down her own book and glared back at him. What was he on about, anyway? She had as much a right as he did to use the library.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She gaped at him. Her eyebrows narrowed. “How dare you ask me that?” she said. “You do not own this library.”

He sneered. “No one else is here. Are you following me?”

“Absolutely not. For all I know, I was here first. I am studying, Tom. It’s what I came here to do.” She gazed at the titles of the books he had. _“Ancient Inscriptions of Ogham_ and _Pyromancy._ Pyromancy, Tom? Maybe I should ask what _you_ are doing here.”

“They are for the Beltane ritual,” he said, affronted. He clutched the books closer. “Of course, you weren’t chosen for that, so I suppose you would not know about the kinds of magic that we’ll perform.”

Hermione drew her wand fully and pointed it at his face. “Watch your words, Tom. You weren’t chosen for it either when you were at my level last spring. And I know what both kinds of magic are, I will have you know.”

“Good for you,” he said snidely. “Now, lower your wand and don’t ever point it at me again.”

She rose from her chair and stormed toward him, her wand out. Although she walked fast, his reflexes were just as quick. Before she reached him, he had shifted the books to one arm and drawn his wand to point it at her. His gaze was set and angry.

Hermione was unafraid. “Do _not_ tell me what to do, Tom Riddle.”

He laughed. “The only reason you even think about challenging me is your exposure to the magical community and the fact that we keep the ancient Celtic custom of honoring witches. If you were still among Saxon Muggles and Norman toadies, you would sit back meekly and do as you were told, because you would not know any better.” The smirk vanished from his face. “Remember that, Hermione. If the Wizards’ Council continues to rule, you will eventually be reduced to the status of a Muggle woman.”

“You have already done that with your treatment of me. You owe me an apology for that, but if you still prefer to dream fanciful dreams with your little friends, then we have nothing further to say to each other right now.” She glared at his books. “Read your books, Tom, and leave me to read mine.”

He sneered at her one last time before storming away. For a moment Hermione thought about calling out to him, pleading for him to come back, but the urge passed in the next moment and she did not. He was the one who ought to do that. If he did not yet realize that, then she would not budge until he did.

* * *

_Longbottom Cottage, Hogsmeade._

Frank and Alice Longbottom sat in the matched pair of chairs on either side of the fire that crackled in the main room of their home. Alice held a small cauldron in her lap, empty. Frank’s mother sat in another chair next to him, her visage silver-haired and stately. Around the room stood the residents of the village who owned their own farms, as well as the chosen leaders of all the trade guilds. With the exception of the witch who headed the weaver’s guild, they were all male. They shifted in place, ill at ease with what they all suspected was about to happen.

The Longbottoms rose. Frank began to speak.

“Friends, leaders of the village, my countrymen…. We have called you to our residence to take a vote on a matter of the greatest importance. The rumors you have heard are true: The village, our village, has negotiated a potential allegiance to the High Master of Hogwarts.”

The villagers eyed each other speculatively.

“The terms of the allegiance are standard. Since the village already trades with Hogwarts and sells food to the school, nothing will change except that we will have to seek approval of the High Master before trading outside, and we will be obliged to provide a token each year in gold or in kind. A very small amount,” he assured them. “Merely a formality to secure the magical contract. We will continue to receive our share of the crops that the school itself owns. We will also have the formal, irrevocable protection of the Masters, and any magical wards that they place over the school may also be imposed on the village.

“This allegiance will not be official unless ‘yeas’ carry the vote. I must warn you,” Frank said, “there are those in high places in this country who will not look fondly upon this move. You may have suspected this already—yes, I see that some of you have. Know that however his high lordship and the rest of the Wizards’ Council would regard this oath, it is lawful and unexceptional for a free town to choose to swear to a lord, and the Master of Hogwarts is a lord, by the Codex of Wizarding Law.”

A farmholder spoke up. “What if Lord Malfoy strips Dumbledore of that title? I hear he can do that now if he wants to, and no one even on the Council can say him nay.”

“You are correct. If that happens, then we will have to choose whether to accept it or rebel,” Frank said grimly. Several people in the group shared uncomfortable looks with each other. “But we do not think that this will happen. Even though Lord Malfoy _can_ do such a thing, there are three other members of the Wizards’ Council who we do not believe will be inclined to risk magical uprisings around the country. They are all related to Malfoy by blood or marriage, too, so they will be able to influence him.

“To avoid pressure, the vote will be private,” Frank explained. “You were all given slips of parchment upon entering. Write your choice, ‘yea’ or ‘nay,’ as to whether the village shall swear fealty to the High Master of Hogwarts, then place your ballot in this cauldron.” He gestured to the cauldron that his wife still held. “I will tally the votes before all of you and show the slips of parchment to everyone.”

The farmholders and tradesmen took out quills of varying degrees of quality and began to scratch their votes. One by one, they either manually dropped the pieces into the cauldron or directed them there by magic. At last the final person had voted. Frank Longbottom reached into the cauldron and began to tally the votes one by one.

“Yea,” he said, holding up the slip of paper so that everyone could see it. Alice flicked her wand, creating a shimmering number in the air to represent the total for each side.

This continued throughout the counting until finally the last ballot was tallied. The vote was closer than the Longbottoms had expected—perhaps the ominous speech about the possible consequences had frightened some of them—but in the end, the yeas carried the vote.

“So be it,” he said. “As the mayor and representative of Hogsmeade, I will take the oath before _his lordship_ High Master Dumbledore.”

After the guests had dispersed, Frank turned to his wife and mother with a sad look on his face. “I feel that I have lied to them.”

“You have not lied,” Alice said gently. “With luck, it will not come to blows between wizards. Our English allies, the ‘robins,’ are busy, after all.”

“The Malfoys will not surrender power quietly, and there is always the possibility that….” He hesitated. _“_ That ‘the robins won’t bring back any food.’ And if they do, the concessions are going to be unpleasant, I’m afraid.”

She held herself resolutely and shared a glance with the elder Augusta Longbottom. “Your mother and I are prepared to make them.”

He sighed again.

* * *

“It’s done,” Neville announced in his quiet way at the next meeting of the Friends of the Founders. “The village voted yea, and my father is going to swear to Dumbledore privately this weekend. After that they will proclaim it. And then….” He trailed off uneasily.

“And then we will all see what Armand Malfoy does,” Hermione said quietly.

The young people nodded solemnly.

Hermione’s conscience pricked at her. _I should tell Tom about this before it happens,_ she thought. _Even though he will find out, just like everyone else, I should tell him in advance so that he can prepare for it._

That evening, she steeled herself to address him in the Slytherin common room, sadly reflecting on the fact that they were so far apart now that she was not even comfortable talking to him. _Perhaps this will be the beginning of a reconciliation,_ she thought optimistically as she approached him. He was by himself, for one, reading a book instead of conspiring in whispers with his friends. As she walked up, he lifted his gaze from the book—Hermione could see it was _Pyromancy—_ and cast her a hostile glare.

“You need not look at me that way,” she snapped, instantly regretting such a poor start to the conversation. She tried to continue in a more neutral tone, lowering her voice as well so that no one else could hear. “I heard this evening that Mayor Longbottom of Hogsmeade conducted a vote about whether to swear fealty to Dumbledore, and it passed.”

Tom closed the book and rose from his seat. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching for her arm. She jerked away, but he took her wrist anyway. “This discussion should occur somewhere else.” He released her wrist and offered her his arm. Hesitantly she took it. He escorted her out of the common room and into a dark, stuffy part of the underground corridor. The stone floor was damp, and there was almost no light except what came from other connecting corridors.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded as he lit the tip of his wand.

“So you have decided to join Potter and Longbottom’s group,” he said.

“You _know_ that I went to the meetings!” she exclaimed. “You asked me to continue attending, when we were still on good terms. What is your problem?”

“Perhaps I don’t want my betrothed swanning about the school with other wizards.”

She glared furiously at him. “I walk to meetings with Luna Lovegood or Ginevra Weasley, and don’t ‘swan about’ with any boy, but perhaps _you_ should start to treat me like your betrothed again if this offends you so much!”

He continued to glare. “I also regard it as switching sides. Frankly, that’s far more important,” he added cuttingly.

She ignored his barb with her response, though it still hurt. “They are not your enemies. They’re not the _Malfoys._ They are opposed to the Wizards’ Council too.”

“This provocation—this Hogsmeade vote—could interfere with my plans. You mentioned it before, but I did not realize they intended to do it so soon. I am not ready for things to start moving yet. I haven’t found the Chamber—”

 _“Curse_ your Chamber!”

He continued as if she had not interrupted. “—and I don’t yet have my friends’ families in alliance with my mother. If the Longbottoms provoke the Wizards’ Council into an act of war, it will be between the two of them. I won’t stand a chance to offer another option to my people.”

Hermione gaped at him. _“That_ is what worries you?”

“It is a fair reading, I think. I hope that the Council doesn’t do anything. At least it’s the school,” he said, trying to inject hope into his words. “Their children attend this school too. It’s almost as impregnable as my mother’s castle. But….” He trailed off.

Hermione was thinking of something else. “You said _‘my_ people.’ Why not ‘our’?”

He gazed evenly at her. “Are they your people, Hermione?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Outraged and furious, she surged forward. “No, I am afraid I don’t, Tom. Are you saying that ‘your people’ don’t include part-Normans, or that they don’t include Muggle-borns?”

“I’m asking if you count _yourself_ as part of ‘my people.’ You must know what I mean when I say that.” He was smirking.

“That’s it, Tom,” she declared. “I am not playing games with you. If you want to know my thoughts about something, you can ask me in a civilized manner, but I will not have this. I wanted to warn you about the Hogsmeade vote so that you _could_ adapt, but clearly, I should not have bothered. Good night.”

She turned on her heels and stormed back to the common room, leaving him standing in the damp hallway. He could not see the tears in her eyes.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall, Hangleton._

Severus Snape entered his lady’s private study, where she stood by the window, staring grimly at the forest outside the castle. She turned as he came into the room and forced a weak smile on her face.

“My lady, what troubles you?” he asked baldly.

She sighed. “My son’s letters to me are cold and perfunctory. I am afraid that he and Lady Hermione are having difficulties. He has hardly mentioned her. I hope she isn’t—”

Severus’s black eyes widened as he completed the sentence in his mind. “You have reason to think there is a chance she might be?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling grimly. “But she knows how to make the potion. I asked her… and it’s also possible that they have quarreled, and that’s why my son’s letters are so chilly. In any case,” she collected herself, “you came here to bring news.” The weak smile transformed into an encouraging one as she sat down behind her desk. “You may sit as well.”

He took a seat and began to speak. “I do have news,” he said slowly. “Hogsmeade’s new mayor, Frank Longbottom, held a vote with the important people in the town. They decided to swear to Dumbledore—well, actually to the head of Hogwarts, who remains a lord or lady in the law.”

Merope nodded. “It hardly changes anything, practically speaking, but the _meaning_ of it is clear.”

“Yes, and it has not been lost on the Wizards’ Council families. The little sources reported that apparently all three of the younger members had to magically restrain Lord Malfoy. He apparently became apoplectic when he heard about it, and wanted to replace Dumbledore—accusing him of treason, I believe—but they rightly persuaded him that nothing in this matter was treasonous, and that the Council did not want to make war on Hogwarts if it could be avoided—especially with the allegiance of Hogsmeade to the castle. The school could easily withstand a siege, between the crop fields and the magical wards, which it can now lawfully place around the town as well.”

Merope picked up a smooth round stone with a snake carved into its surface and began to caress it as a worry-stone. “I wonder if the other members of the Council will one day have to… _remove_ Lord Malfoy.” Although the door was closed and no one was present but the two of them, she still said it in a whisper.

Severus looked concerned. “This country is no stranger to parricide among the nobles, to be sure. I wonder, though, if we would really be better off if that did happen. Although the others are more ‘moderate,’ they are also smarter and have all their wits yet.”

“They can do oppressive things and it will not seem as bad,” she agreed. “And on that topic, what of the plot involving Caractacus Burke? Have you heard anything about that?”

Severus scowled blackly. “Unfortunately, my lady, I have, and none of it is good.” He took a deep breath. “Malfoy’s law is official, of course: For future noble marriages, the wizard husband of a witch is the administrator and lord of the castle, though inheritance remains in her family line. This was almost certainly meant to persuade Burke, and it seems that it did. He consented, and Lord Black gave his permission.”

Merope sighed and rubbed her eyes. “It will not happen, Severus.”

“Of course, my lady. I would not expect it to,” he agreed pointedly. He cleared his throat and continued. “The little source also thinks that they attempted to kill your former husband, Sir Thomas.”

She looked up at him, alarmed. “Attempted? They did not succeed, I hope?”

“They did not. Your ward was infallible. The source saw them leaving the castle as a group—Burke himself had gone along—and then returning full of complaints.”

Merope managed a smile. “At least there is that.”

“Yes. But this does not mean that they won’t stop trying.”

“I suppose we are all waiting to see what will happen next.”

“Yes, we are.”

* * *

_The night of April 30, 1145._

Tom put on his dark green robes, the ones with Celtic designs decorating the sleeves and hems. He attached the medallion that secretly bore the Triquetra, visible only when he or one of his allies—which still included Hermione, he thought—touched it. It was appropriate for this event. The state of mind of a witch or wizard participating in this ritual was crucial, and these little details all had a power to influence that.

Tom was still deciding what endeavor to charm. His conscience told him one thing, and his rational mind another. _It has been months since I even spoke civilly to Hermione, let alone shared affections with her,_ he thought with some discomfort. That latter had been more of a challenge than he had expected, especially after a dream clearly inspired by his suppressed desire for her. And yet, and _yet—_ he did not particularly want to touch her as long as she was acting so unreasonable. If he did, it would be a surrender. He truly did not think he was in the wrong, and in fact, that rational part of his mind even told him that their separation this spring had been good, because it meant that his friends ignored her entirely instead of snickering at her and thereby creating pressure for him to join in.

 _She is aligning herself with Potter and Longbottom,_ he thought with irritation, _and Morgana only knows what they are really up to—or their parents, at any rate. The boys themselves probably have no idea what their families are actually involved in. But neither do I._

Use the ritual to charm his relationship with Hermione—or to charm his political ambitions? Tom missed her, but he was also annoyed with her, and as he thought more about it, it seemed foolish to choose the heart over the mind. If the political winds shifted—if _he_ started to develop real power—then she would return to him of her own accord, which was how he wanted it. He did not know what the “Friends of the Founders” or their families were planning, but it certainly did not have anything to do with replacing that Muggle pretender-king Stephen, or his female cousin, with the line of Gaunt. The seed of ambition had germinated, and Tom was not going to move it to withered soil now.

Tom took out the piece of parchment that he was going to use for the ritual and inscribed on it his ambitions to claim the heritage of Slytherin and the birthright of Mordred. _Ogham,_ he thought, making sure to use the ancient system of writing, and to write the sentence in Gaelic. That mattered too, he was certain. The wishes of his classmates, written in the Latin alphabet in the Norman-bastardized English that they spoke, surely would not resonate with the Beltane fire as well as this did. He smiled in satisfaction, rolled up the parchment, and left the Slytherin common room just before midnight to meet the other participants in the forest.

Slughorn, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and several of the other masters stood aside as their pupils approached. They were all dressed in various hues of green, of which Tom approved. He moved as close as he could to the professors, giving them eager smiles that achieved precisely the end he was hoping for. Slughorn in particular beamed fondly at him and even had the temerity to offer him a wink.

 _The fat romantic blowhard must think I am going to charm my engagement to Hermione,_ he thought contemptuously. _Poor Slughorn. I have much grander plans than that._ As Tom glanced at the other young witches and wizards who were standing, talking in low voices to each other, waiting for the ritual to begin, he felt a surge of contempt for them and whatever cheap, common dreams they were hoping to make happen. They were probably going to ask for gold—or for a particular romantic attachment, as Slughorn apparently hoped for him. _Magic itself would disapprove of being used for such purposes,_ he thought.

Dumbledore raised his wand high and sent a shower of gold sparks into the air. The murmur of voices quieted, and everyone looked to him. “My friends… it is now midnight. We are gathered here tonight to light the ancient fire of Beltane and to charm our chosen endeavors, for this season, with growth and fruitfulness, as is the power of this date. If you have not yet written your endeavor on your parchment, please do so at this time.”

All of the pupils took out their parchments from waist purses, from folds inside their sleeves, or—like Tom—merely held them out, having already held them in hand.

“Good, then,” Dumbledore continued. “In that case, we will begin by lighting the magical fire. You all know this spell by now. It is customary that a witch begin the chant, and I am honored to let Professor McGonagall do so.” He raised his wand, and the other professors—and then the pupils—followed. Dumbledore turned to McGonagall with a nod.

The Scottish witch began to utter an incantation in Gaelic. Tom knew it was going to happen, but still, actually hearing the perfect utterance of that tongue sent a thrill through his body. He remembered his mother doing so at Yule, and then forced his thoughts to remain in the present. That was important.

Green and gold sparks issued forth from McGonagall’s wand, sprinkling the ground. She turned to the other professors, her spell never stopping. They joined the chant. The shower of sparks grew.

In a moment, Slughorn—who was next to Tom—turned to him and gave him a nod. This was the cue. Tom began to speak, the ancient words sounding perfect to him, right and proper and powerful. Sparks flew from his wand—and then one that was more than a spark. It was the faintest flicker of fire, but it caught the pile of kindling that the professors had laid out in a ritual circle. Tom beamed proudly. That was a good sign, surely. Slughorn seemed to agree; he smiled happily at Tom as the flames caught.

It was only the beginning. After that first flame, a perfect gold-and-orange one that burned green at its heart, it seemed easier for everyone else to cast the magical fire. In a minute, the circle was burning merrily, an inferno of gold, orange, and green. Magical sparks flew into the sky. The chanting ceased.

Tom raised his wand again and drew a sign in the air in green flame, the pentagram. “Magic,” he murmured in the old tongue. He drew a circle surrounding it. “The eternal cycle.” He counted in the ancient tongue, naming the months, beginning not with January, but with the start of the new year as the ancients had reckoned it. With each month, he cast a separate symbol into the sky, outlined in thin green flame.

His part over, Tom stepped back. Another student stepped forward, cast a charm over the fire, and studied it intently. The flames roared, but the amount of heat did not change. The pupil, a Ravenclaw, cast a second spell. The fire subsided to its former state. “It is receptive,” the wizard said.

“The magic is ready,” McGonagall announced. “Young scholars, come forward and offer your sacrifice to the flames.”

They had been instructed to bring a sacrifice to offer the fire, and they were forbidden to bring animals, living or dead. It also had to be a true sacrifice, which required more thought for witches and wizards. It had to be something they could not create out of thin air with magic. Since wizards and witches apparently could not create edible food directly with magic—it had been tried, and no one had ever succeeded—that was the easiest, most obvious solution. The professors had advised them to bring fruit, meat, or spices, preferably that they had gathered or purchased themselves from Hogsmeade. Food taken from the Hogwarts dining table would not be much of a personal sacrifice. Tom withdrew an apple from his belt pouch, perfect and unblemished. He cast it into the fire along with the rest of the classmates. The fire developed a sickly sweet smell, and a plume of smoke escaped into the sky.

“Now, one by one, cast your parchments into the blaze. Be sure to focus on your wishes intently, to the exclusion of all else if you can. Professor Trelawney”—Tom glanced at the Divination mistress, surprised that he had not recognized her until now—“will interpret the fire for you.”

Trelawney normally had an untrustworthy, grubby appearance, and her skills in the classroom did not inspire confidence either. However, tonight she had taken the trouble to look the part, and she did not seem batty at all right now. Perhaps her act for the lecture room was to compensate for the fact that the conditions for true Divination were poor. That was not the case at the moment.

Tom was first. Focusing intently on his ambition to benevolently rule witches and wizards, to restore the rightful line to the throne, to claim his birthright— _all_ of his birthrights—he dropped his parchment into the magical flames. The fire accepted it, crackling in a flurry of green sparks as it consumed it. The flame surged, taking strange shapes. Tom studied them as well as they could, though they were ephemeral. That long tongue of fire—was that a serpent? And that surge of green color that rose through the gold flames, reaching the crest, then vanishing into the air—the fire _was_ a circle—was that a crown?

“Magic favors your wish,” Trelawney intoned. Tom smirked broadly.

The flames suddenly escaped the circle, getting very close to Tom’s robes. Trelawney’s already large eyes widened in alarm. “Great danger lies ahead.”

 _That_ did not require much interpretation, Tom thought—but as far as he was concerned, that was an additional sign that his goals would bear fruit.

After its momentary surge, the fire seemed to draw back to its original circle. The flames immediately before Tom flickered oddly. For the first time that evening, red appeared in the fire, but only in front of him. It was the purest red, as red as the apple he had tossed into the flames, not a hint of orange—a color not usually seen in fire, he thought.

It was only a moment, and after it had passed, Tom wondered if he had really seen it. He frowned. Trelawney had not noticed that. She was gazing up at the flurry of sparks and smoke and declaring that she kept seeing serpents and ravens. That made sense to Tom, validating what he wanted to be true, and he paid little attention to it. Slughorn beamed and gave Tom a wink, apparently convinced that this meant that he and Hermione would have a large family.

Trelawney’s voice subsided. For another moment, a single, small tongue of flame in front of Tom flickered blood-red again, its hot heart lethal green. There was no doubt this time. Tom stared at the green core of the flame, and for a moment it seemed that a face stared back at him, a face drawn and anguished, the eyes dark, deadly, and filled with a nameless rage. _Whose face is that?_ Tom thought—but in the next moment, it dissolved into the green heart of the fire.

His part in the ritual over, Tom stepped back to think about what he had just seen and done as his schoolmates cast their own scrolls into the blaze. Trelawney continued her interpretations, but there was nothing quite as showy after that.

 _It will happen,_ he thought, studing the flames. _Magic wants it to happen. I always knew that it would have risks. I will meet them, and I will triumph._


	23. Inner Sanctum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and thank you once again! This chapter is, in some ways, lighter and more positive than the preceding one, but in other ways it's kind of sad and ominous in its own right. A mixed bag, in other words. I hope it works. Thank you for continuing to support this story!

_Castle Parselhall, Hangleton._

Hermione closed her book and rubbed her forehead as she stared out the windows of the Riddle library. It was the day after she and Tom had left Hogwarts for the summer, and he was continuing to ignore her. There was no particular problem with _that,_ she thought bitterly, if the apparent alternative was for him to treat her badly, but this was going to be a long summer without his company—unless she found something else to fill her time.

She had never questioned the custom of noble children being fostered at the homes of other nobles, especially not in the situation where it was _not_ rivals essentially keeping hostages, but instead a young person spending time with their future spouse. It had seemed perfectly natural and sensible to her, and in previous summers, she had enjoyed every moment she could have with Tom. But now, it was different.

In one sense, it was good that she did not have to worry anymore about sneakily making that potion to prevent pregnancy. The risk with that had always been that someone would notice certain ingredients missing, ingredients that had little use other than that potion, or that she would actually be caught brewing the potion itself and would have to explain herself to an adult. Tom had it much easier, she thought sourly. But at the same time, the _reason_ that she no longer needed to do this was an unpleasant one.

 _How long will this continue?_ Hermione thought, continuing to stare out the window at nothing specific. _I would not have believed he would stay away from me even as long as he has, let alone longer—and it sure looks as if it will be longer. Next year will be my third year at Hogwarts. What if we never make amends? What if this is how my life will be, living in this castle and ignored by my own husband because he doesn’t care for me?_ That thought was deeply depressing to her.

 _One thing at a time, Hermione,_ she chastised herself. _There is plenty of time to make amends with him. It will be at least two years before the wedding and possibly three. A lot can happen between now and then. What matters for now is finding something to do this summer._

She considered visiting her own friends, then rejected that notion. Lady Merope absolutely would not send her to a villager’s cottage. Besides, even without the complication of social class, the only friend who was even a possibility was Luna. It was impossible that she could visit Harry or Neville, who had no female relatives that she could justifiably say she was visiting, and Ginevra Weasley apparently lived in a small cottage with a houseful of wizards. That was also a situation that would be deemed inappropriate for Hermione.

Hermione thought for a moment about inviting Luna and Ginevra to Castle Parselhall. _Hmm._ Although they were not nobles, and her parents might not approve of her association with them at all, Lady Merope was her foster parent. She seemed to have a different attitude, and might regard well-mannered, educated, respectable witches as suitable companions whether they had titles or not. To the wizarding aristocracy—other than exceptional snobs like Adelaide Lestrange—it seemed that common-born witches and wizards were several notches above common-born Muggles, a kind of nature’s nobility, or gentry at least. With Lady Merope making the decision, it was possible that Hermione could invite her female friends here.

 _My parents really have taken little interest in me since I went to school at Hogwarts,_ Hermione thought suddenly. She had written letters occasionally to them, but they seemed to regard their work rearing her as finished and related to her as an adult daughter now. She supposed that in Muggle terms, she was, even though witches and wizards held that she was not until she turned seventeen or achieved mastery of magic, whichever came first. Was the distance between her and her parents because she had magic and they did not, and they considered her to be a part of that group of nobles now, or was it that they had achieved their principal goal as noble parents and found a match for her? _Probably both,_ she thought sadly. She loved them, and she knew that they had been very good to her, but after seeing the surprisingly close familial relationships among people of magic, Hermione now realized that even the kindest Muggle aristocrats were not very affectionate parents in comparison. _It must be the wizarding custom of viewing sons and daughters as “children” for longer,_ she thought—but this line of thought only reinforced to Hermione how alone she really was.

She would ask Lady Merope about inviting Luna and Ginevra, then. It was probably best to give them an opportunity to visit their own families first, but in a couple of weeks, she would inquire about it.

* * *

Little did Hermione know that Tom was planning the same thing. Down the hallway, he sat at his desk in his bedchamber, thinking. He did not want to waste the power of the ritual that he had performed. He felt the thrill of possibility, a window opening up to reveal an unexplored vista. The power of the ritual was his to take—but he had to do it.

 _I need to formalize my friendships as alliances,_ he thought suddenly. He took up a quill and dipped it in ink. _These friendships are no good right now in pragmatic terms. Hermione said once that we dreamt fanciful dreams. I hate to admit it, but she was right. I need their families in alliance with my mother._

Tom had never invited friends to the castle. In previous summers, including the summer before Hermione had started at Hogwarts—the very first few months that Mother had owned it—he had been content to spend the days by himself or with Hermione. But she was keeping to herself, and the more that she stayed away from him, the more inclined he was to let her keep her distance. Then, too, things were in motion beyond the walls of Hangleton. The Wizards’ Council was always up to no good, and the families of the self-proclaimed “Friends of the Founders” (Tom doubted very much that the Founder who was _his_ ancestor was included) were making provocations—and, Tom suspected, also doing or planning _something_ that they did not want to tell their children. Other people were making their moves, and Tom realized he needed to make his. It had been nice in the past, but currently, each moment spent lazing next to the stream with Hermione would be a moment wasted. _Let her stew in her cauldron, then. I have better things to do._

He rose from his chair and went to find his mother. She was in her office, studying the accounts of the barony for spring. Her eyebrows went up as he entered.

“I was hoping to invite some friends to visit,” he said obligingly, smiling at her to try to persuade.

He need not have bothered. Merope returned the smile. “I am very glad that you have additional friends,” she said. “Who are they?”

“Edgar Fawley, Marcus Flint, Rob Wilkes, Cormac Avery, and Theodore Nott.”

“Those are all noble families,” Merope said, frowning in thought.

Tom understood what she was getting at. “We have been friends for a while now, but before you were raised to your title, they had little to do with me,” he said. “I’m quite aware that they only began to see me as an equal, and a potential friend, after that. But they do now.”

Merope sighed. “It is true… but as you say, at least they do now. I don’t think those families are aligned with the Malfoys.”

“They are not.”

“Then if their parents don’t object, they may certainly come.”

Tom smirked broadly as he bowed to her, turned away, and left the room.

* * *

Within a couple of days, young wizards started to arrive. Hermione watched from a distance—a short distance physically, a vast one in her heart and mind—as Tom’s friends, the very people who in her opinion had led him away from her, began to turn up in Parselhall. It wasn’t fair, she thought, hiding away in the library after Fawley arrived. This _was_ Tom’s home, but it was also hers. _She_ would be lady of the castle someday. As lonely as it was now, it had at least been a sanctuary from these boys, an inner sanctum for her to escape to—until now.

In a sense, Hermione supposed that it still was. They were spending time elsewhere in the castle, one of the many rooms in the vast place. The sheer emptiness of this castle was always a sharp contrast with the bustling one in which Hermione had grown up, but then again, a Muggle castle needed a household of Muggle servants. Witches and wizards apparently needed only elves, a few people from the village for work such as sewing, and magic spells. It was lonely, but at least they were not bothering _her._ There was enough room that they did not have to see each other at all except at dinner.

Hermione carried a heavy book to a corner of the library and attempted to read. She _was_ going to invite Ginevra and Luna, but she knew that the castle must have become much less appealing to them—if they had known—since Tom’s friends began to arrive. Her second plan was to study and practice her magic. Feeling under siege in her own home only reinforced that inclination to her.

A noisy rumble sounded at her feet—a dark orange blur appeared in her peripheral vision—and in the next moment, her lap was full of fur. Crookshanks walked proudly over the pages of the book, rubbing his head against Hermione. She laughed in exasperation, gently shifted the book out from under his feet, and closed it. The cat sat down contentedly in her lap, his goal achieved. He continued to purr as Hermione scratched and petted him. A smile formed on her face in spite of herself. At least Crookshanks would not abandon her….

The tall doors to the library creaked open. Crookshanks stopped purring; his ears turned back in alert. His gaze followed the clatter of footsteps on the stone floor. When Tom turned the corner of the nearest bookshelves and found himself facing Hermione, the cat let out a growl of warning and leapt from her lap to the ground.

Tom glared at the animal. He regarded Hermione with a silent stare before sniffing faintly, as if annoyed that she was present. He turned to continue walking.

He was by himself, she noticed. Although she knew it was a bad idea, she could not resist. “Where are all your friends?” she said, snideness in her words.

He stopped cold, turned around, and glared at her. “That’s none of your concern.”

Crookshanks growled and hissed. Before Tom could move, he leapt forward and viciously attacked Tom’s ankles, exposed by the low shoes that he wore. The cat’s long fluffy tail was visible outside Tom’s robes. He shrieked, dropped the book he was carrying, and fell to the ground as Crookshanks darted away. The cat crouched next to the left side of the chair that Hermione sat in, growling and glowering at Tom as he clutched his bleeding ankles.

Tom finally got his wand out and healed the bites and scratches. He rose to his feet again—Hermione noticed, with grim satisfaction, that his eyes had unshed tears in them—and glared furiously at the cat.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” she exclaimed. His wand was not pointed at Crookshanks, but she was not going to give him the chance. She fumbled for her own wand and held it threateningly.

“I would never hurt a witch’s familiar,” he said contemptuously. “But _you_ should control that cat. Did you teach him to do that to me?”

“No, but I wish I had,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

Tom raised his wand to Hermione’s face, but he did not cast a spell. She kept hers pointed back at him, not blinking as she locked eyes with him. She would not blink. She _would not—_

Tom suddenly laughed. He lowered his wand. “You’re afraid of my friends?”

Her eyes popped wide open as she realized what had happened. “How _dare_ you,” she said, outraged. “You have _no right_ to read my thoughts without permission.”

“I am a Legilimens and I will use my skill as I see fit. If you don’t like that, then make me stop.” He smirked at her, picked up his book, and walked away—picking up his pace, she noticed with satisfaction, after Crookshanks hissed at him again.

Then his words hit her. _All right,_ she thought. _I will._

* * *

Hermione knocked on the door of Lord Severus’s office in the castle, nervous about this entire situation, but resolved upon it. The knob turned, and the door swung open, revealing the dour-faced man. He gazed upon her with a sneer, which generally would have cowed her, but she was used to it from Tom by now. She met his gaze.

“Lord Severus, I would like to learn Occlumency,” she said without prelude. “I understand that you know this skill…?” She hoped that she had remembered correctly from previous conversations over the table. She was _pretty_ sure that he knew this magic… he seemed to have implied to Tom before that he did….

His scowl somehow deepened, but he considered her words. “I know it, yes. What does her ladyship think of this?”

“Lady Merope? I have not asked her,” Hermione admitted. For a moment worry crossed her mind, but then it passed. Merope would not mind. _Tom_ would, but she did not require Tom’s permission for this. The thought made her feel smug.

She followed Lord Severus as he walked briskly down the hallway to Merope’s office. She was alone inside when she granted them admittance, and she seemed surprised that Tom did not accompany them.

“My lady,” he said, “Lady Hermione wishes to learn Occlumency from me. Since she is a young witch, and with the situation with your son—and your guardianship of her—I wanted to make sure that this was acceptable.”

Merope regarded Hermione curiously. “I did not know that you were interested in that type of magic,” she said. “Of course you may learn from him, but I didn’t realize it was something that you wanted to do.”

Hermione quickly fished for an explanation. “I think I should learn how to protect my mind, what with enemies all around and threats probably increasing,” she said. “I don’t know who has Legilimency skills and who does not, and it’s best to be prepared.”

Lord Severus did not seem to buy that explanation entirely, and Hermione was not sure that Lady Merope did either, but it was at least part of the truth. It wasn’t false in itself. Merope studied her for a moment before nodding her head. “Of course. As I said, you may certainly practice with him. That said,” she added, frowning thoughtfully, “it’s probably best to keep the door open and to have the lessons in a relatively public, commonly used room. For appearance’s sake.”

Lord Severus nodded curtly in agreement.

* * *

The Occlumency lessons would take place in a small parlor near the entrance to the great dining hall. The ground-level hall was just outside the room, and when Severus strode in, he pointedly charmed the heavy wooden door to remain fully open.

“Lady Hermione,” he said without prelude, his voice gruff, “I suspect that the reasons you gave for wishing to know this skill are… incomplete.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment.

“All I have to say is this: If you want to learn Occlumency in order to conceal from Lord Thomas any act against him, whether you’ve committed it already or merely plan to, then I _will_ find it out in the process of teaching you, and I will cease the lessons immediately.” He put his hand up as she began to speak in protest. “I am not saying this to involve myself in the private matters of your betrothal, because trust me, I _don’t_ want to. But I am sworn to the Riddle family, and it is a violation of my oath to be complicit in actions against them.”

“I have done nothing against him and I don’t plan to,” she burst out in indignation. She hesitated for a brief moment about whether to tell him the truth, but realized that he would probably see it anyway, as he had just said. “What I told her ladyship was true, but the rest of the truth is merely that Tom is a Legilimens himself and reads my thoughts without permission, and I don’t like it. I’m not trying to hide any betrayal from him, nor would I betray him. I just want privacy for my own mind, the same as he has, since most people aren’t Legilimens.”

He studied her. “Fair enough.” He scowled. “In that case, we shall begin. I assume that you have read something about this magic before, and that you know the basics of it on a theoretical level. One hardly sees you without a book nearby.”

“Yes, I know the basics.”

“Then you know that you must focus all of your force of will upon blocking me. You must not think about the details of any memory that I encounter, because that will only clear the way for my magic. Shut down your emotions. Force yourself not to dwell upon your memories. Detach and think about blocking me.” He raised his wand. _“Legilimens!”_

Hermione’s mind reeled as she felt an alien presence. It was much more aggressive and coarse than Tom’s Legilimency—but Tom never used the spell verbally. Apparently Severus did not have a natural talent for it. Nonetheless, she felt memories being forcibly dragged out of her mind without her control.

_The library at Hogwarts._

_“Lower your wand and don’t ever point it at me again.”_

_Hot fury flooded her mind. She rose from her chair and stormed toward him. He moved his books to one arm and pointed his wand at her face, glaring furiously._

_“Do not tell me what to do, Tom Riddle.”_

_No,_ Hermione thought in the present time, _that’s quite enough. That’s none of your business. Out!_ She tried to remember what she was supposed to do. _Don’t dwell on the emotions and don’t think about what happened._ She forced herself to remember where she actually was. The memory faded, and the parlor came into focus again. Snape was glaring at her, his wand pointed at her face, but his eyes were also slightly widened in surprise and alarm.

He lowered his wand. _“Finite._ An acceptable first attempt,” he said grudgingly. He forked an eye at her. “What was that?”

She glared back. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“You fought with him.”

“Obviously so, but our private quarrels are our own concern. All couples fight from time to time.”

Severus glared at her. “Mind that it does not become more than a mere quarrel.”

“It won’t. I told you that already.”

A scowl reappeared on his face. “You are a promising pupil of Occlumency. Are you ready for another attempt?”

“Yes—”

_“Legilimens!”_

Hermione was stunned at how quick he had been; he had given her no time to prepare— _but that’s how it would always be,_ she thought as he began to pore through her thoughts again. A memory slouched out of the recesses of her mind. She and Tom were locked in a tight embrace—

 _Out!_ she thought furiously. Embarrassment flooded her, and against her better judgment, she began to focus on the embarrassment and on the particulars that had caused it. The memory came into better focus. She was still clothed, at least, but Tom was tugging on her robes. _Stay out!_ she thought. She remembered the method again. _Detach. Don’t think about the memory. I am in the small parlor at Parselhall, and it is summertime. This is an Occlumency lesson. It is summertime, and I’m going to ask Lady Merope if I can invite Luna and Ginevra…._ As she focused on something, anything, other than the memory itself, its presence faded and the current surroundings returned to prominence.

Snape lowered his wand. _“Finite.”_ He regarded her with sympathy. “That’s enough for this lesson, Lady Hermione.”

She agreed completely.

That evening, after an extremely awkward dinner with Lord Severus, Tom, and Tom’s friends in close proximity, Hermione shut herself away in her bedchamber with a large book about Occlumency. She had read about the subject before, just as she had told Lord Severus, but she was determined that he was not going to see even as much as he had seen today in the first lesson. Her memories with Tom were obviously the most emotionally charged, the most likely to leak and be seen, but they were also the most private—the most intimate, and in many cases, the most precious. She was determined to protect them.

* * *

_Two weeks later._

Tom proudly welcomed Lord and Lady Fawley to the castle, his mother watching with sharp eyes. They were going to bring their son back home, but before they did, they had very important business with the baroness.

In a short time, Lady Merope had ushered them into a private sitting room. She took her seat, and as they followed, she ordered a house-elf to bring refreshments.

“I am honored to negotiate with another whose family had an original seat on the Wizengamot,” Merope said, her words stately and cool but not insincere.

Lord Fawley smiled, holding his wife’s hand. “And likewise for me, my lady. It is a pity—no, a _crime—_ that these interlopers presumed to disband it and establish themselves in its place. We would have welcomed them to the table,” he said, shaking his head. “They would have been admitted and given family seats… we did it for the Saxons, for the Vikings when they came… but that was not enough for the likes of Lord Armand Malfoy.”

“Lord Malfoy has behaved in an unfriendly way to my family,” Merope said. “He has instituted a new law that takes power away from witches who are the rightful heirs to titles, if they choose to marry.”

“Indeed, I have heard of it. A shocking break from ancient tradition… though the ancient traditions have been eroded with time, of course.”

“And Malfoy has also pardoned a pair of oathbreakers who used to serve my family and then swore to the Lestranges.”

Fawley raised his eyebrows. “That is a very personal affront.”

“It is,” she said tightly. “I have named the family of Rodolphus Lestrange as enemies for accepting the unlawful oaths, but Malfoy’s pardons are personal affronts indeed. The troubles really began, of course, when I appealed the Wizards’ Council’s initial decision to deny Lady Hermione Granger admission to Hogwarts. Although the contract with the young lady and my son has no effect on Lord Malfoy or the others in the Council whatsoever, they seemed to regard it as a defiance of the spirit of their law. They have never forgiven it,” she ended wryly.

Lord and Lady Fawley exchanged glances, considering her words and what they thought of it. Finally he spoke. “Of course,” he said hesitantly, “we would not presume to interject ourselves in how you conduct your family affairs….”

“I should hope not,” she said coolly.

“Certainly not,” he said, his voice stronger. “And it is an appropriate match, considering he’s half-blood. They wrote the law, and you obeyed it. They should not have acted the way they did. They are entirely out of control, and my son tells me that your family fears what the future may hold from them.”

“It is so,” she admitted. “Currently I am safe, and this castle is very ancient and has powerful wards, which I have reinforced of late… but—and I will speak plainly—my late lord father and brother were irresponsible and wicked to our longtime vassals. They undeservedly stripped some of them of their titles, exiled others—and I still have not found one in particular, or even learned if he is yet alive—and drove others to defect, including the pair of oathbreakers. As a result, I am left with few allies other than Lord Severus Snape, who is the greatest friend to this family. I also, of course, have an alliance with Lady Hermione’s parents, but as you know, they are not magical. I would certainly welcome an alliance of friendship with your ancient and noble family,” she concluded, making sure to sound as formal and stately as she could.

Lord Fawley nodded. “And it is an honor to make it. So many of the old noble families went over to the other side. The Blacks… it’s a disgrace, if I may say so.” He considered. “We are not, of course, making war on the Wizards’ Council.”

“No,” she agreed. “This is a defensive agreement, a statement to them that we do not stand alone.”

Tom almost preened with pride at these words. It was a shame that Hermione had chosen to secrete herself away in her room, reading something, instead of listening to this. She would have nothing to say now. No more fanciful dreams; this alliance was real. The Fawleys would be but the first allies to join, if he had anything to say about it.

* * *

As it happened, Hermione did know why the Fawleys had come. She had overheard Tom chatting with the boy about the alliance. Her heart almost shattered when she heard Fawley say that his parents were interested in it. _This is going to reinforce Tom’s idea that he was justified in treating me ill,_ she had thought miserably. _This is all that he really cares about now, getting people on his side for the future war that he intends to wage—or provoke. I wonder if his mother knows what he really intends by it._ She was actually quite sure that Lady Merope knew no such thing, and she considered telling her the truth, but she decided against that. Lady Merope needed allies for her own sake, whatever Tom might have in mind, and _she_ would be the one negotiating any alliances, not Tom. There was nothing to be gained by tattling on him to his mother, and she might very well respond by rejecting allies that she sorely needed.

That did not make the situation easy for Hermione to take. She had little doubt that Tom had chosen to use the school’s Beltane ritual to bless his ambitions, rather than their relationship, and that this was the result of the incomparable power of old magic. _At least the effect will taper off by the end of summer,_ she comforted herself. _It is not a permanent charm. He’s using its power right now, while it is at its peak. I can get through this. Maybe he’ll be more amenable to my perspective after he can’t say any longer that he needs to be cruel to me in order to keep his informal allies with him. There will be formal alliances after this._

In the meantime, she was determined to become a master of magic as early as she could. She spent a lot of time in the library, but when she did go elsewhere—including outside—she usually had books with her and her loyal Crookshanks at her heels. She _was_ going to be selected for that ritual next year, at the same age that he was. Whether she would use it for their relationship, she would decide later. An angry part of her thought that perhaps she should use it for a similar purpose to the one he had chosen. Another part wanted to use the old magic to influence him. She would decide when the time came.

The Occlumency lessons continued through the summer. After an initial period in which her ability to deflect Severus’s magic did not improve—it did not decrease, but her speed at blocking him did not increase either—she had a sudden breakthrough. One minute, Severus was scowling, glowering at her, as she fought to keep him from seeing the memory of her crying in the corridors after Adelaide Lestrange’s mud-and-blood attack—and in the next moment, she had not just erected an unassailable mental shield, but had also somehow reversed the direction of his spell.

In that moment, which lasted no longer than the time it took to gasp for breath, she saw Severus sitting at his desk, sighing. His thoughts were consumed with Lady Merope.

 _“Out!”_ he roared, suddenly blocking her. He ended the spell and breathed heavily, glaring at her. “You will not speak of this,” he demanded.

“Certainly not,” she said, her eyes wide and her voice low.

“I think you have mastered Occlumency now. You have improved all season. I recommend practicing whenever possible. You know the technique. It is better when someone is attempting to read your thoughts, but you can practice the state of mind at any time. Do it.”

Hermione recognized that as a dismissal. She nodded, bowed, and scurried out of the room at once.

* * *

There was still almost a full month before Hermione and Tom were to return to Hogwarts. Hermione remembered her initial resolution to invite her friends. Now that she had achieved something concrete, she decided that the time had come to do that. Confidently she strode to Lady Merope’s office to explain her idea and ask permission.

The older woman considered Hermione’s words and smiled when she was finished speaking. “Of course you may invite your friends from Hogwarts,” she said. “I have heard of the Weasleys. They used to have a title. The Lovegoods are an interesting family… they are poor relations of Rowena Ravenclaw herself, not in the direct line, but related… I would be honored to have both of the young witches here and I hope their parents allow it.”

Wouldn’t Tom be surprised! Smugly imagining the look on his face when _her_ friends turned up, she went to the courtyard to send the owls.

The replies arrived in a day. Luna’s letter bubbled over with enthusiasm, declaring her own residence in a single tower and her interest in “a real castle.” Ginevra’s letter was more circumspect, but she seemed relieved to be away from the cramped cottage full of wizards. Hermione also detected some tension between Ginevra and her mother, and she wondered for a moment if _that_ might be the real reason why the Gryffindor witch was choosing to visit… but what mattered was that she was visiting.

Hermione showed the letters to Lady Merope, and together they began to make plans to accommodate the girls. Hermione wanted them to have the rooms next to hers, so that they could easily spend the night together if they chose.

It was not that she deliberately kept the news from Tom, but Tom was always busy plotting with the friends of his who remained at the castle—Avery and Nott, she thought—and _she_ certainly was not going to interrupt their discussions. In fact, she wanted to keep her distance from him for as long as that charm remained in effect. So it happened that the day they arrived, Tom was ensconced in a side room with his friends.

She had been anticipating the girls’ arrival, so when they appeared hand-in-hand with an elf in the castle entrance, she rose grandly from where she was waiting and welcomed them. The sounds of Apparition startled Tom. As Hermione was offering her greetings and linking arms with them, he burst from the room. His dark eyes were wide with surprise at the sight.

“Oh, good afternoon, Lord Thomas,” Luna said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon,” he finally sputtered. He gazed at Hermione, eyebrows narrowing, but she merely smiled at him as she escorted her friends to the small family dining room for refreshments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever are the Wizards' Council up to? We shall find out soon.


	24. Treason Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, apologies once again for the slight delay on this one. I was busy this weekend. Thank you so much for your continued interest in the story! Things are picking up, and they are about to turn dark, as you will see.
> 
> I feel that I should post a warning for one section of this chapter, a scene at the Lestranges’ castle, due to pretty extreme misogyny, disregard of (mentioned, not described) rape, and general ugliness. As you have probably noted, I haven’t warned everything in this story that is ugly, so I think this scene is worse than usual in that regard.

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

“It won’t stand,” Armand Malfoy declared, setting down his goblet on the table. “I won’t have it, my son.”

Abraxas scowled into his own goblet. His father was out of control. He had no idea why anymore, either. He had gone to the family library and taken down the large tome that spoke of sacrificial magic in all its forms to try to find out what he could. It had plenty of information. It spoke of the incomparable power of human sacrifice to seal unbreakable charms of protection, to split the soul for earthly immortality, perhaps even—according to the ancient Celts—to open doors to the other side of the great Veil separating the living from the dead. The book also spoke of the power of sacrifice of non-human innocents. The potion that his father was taking was not supposed to rot his brains. It was meant to be a _cure_ for physical ills. Whatever was happening was due to something else, and Abraxas was at a loss as to what.

“Father,” Abraxas said patiently, “I beg you not to strip the High Master position of its noble title.”

“I don’t mean to do that. We will need to install one of our own someday, after all—perhaps Carrow. I will sign an order that the High Master of Hogwarts cannot accept the oaths of anyone, since the title is not hereditary. That’s how it is, is it not, my son? Oaths pass through blood inheritance.”

That was not so at all. One could swear an oath of loyalty to an organization, an order, an institution, and it held regardless of who led. Why was his father declaring otherwise?

“Of course, if it should become so, then I can revoke that order.” Malfoy sipped from his goblet. “But I am tired of all these little rebellions. They irritate me.”

 _You are going to have this entire accursed country in open revolt against you if you respond to everything that “irritates” you,_ Abraxas thought, glaring at his father as he guzzled again from his cup. _These people are grasping at what little power they think they can. Perhaps it will even satisfy them if you leave them be. But if you take that away from them, they will retaliate. Why can’t you see that?_

In a little while, after they rose from the private family table, Abraxas reluctantly drew his wand and pointed it at his father’s back as he approached the door to the little room. This was the fourth Memory Charm he had cast. He hoped that this wasn’t making the problem with his father’s mind worse, because it had to be done.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

It was not easy for Tom to catch Hermione alone. For a couple of days, he didn’t see her without her two friends present. Finally, though, he caught her walking a pathway along the grounds by herself, and he seized the moment.

She noticed his approach and sighed inwardly. It was probably just as well that they have it out, but she would have preferred some time to prepare for the confrontation.

He reached her. “Hermione. I had no idea that your friends were coming.”

She stopped walking and stared haughtily at him. “Your mother did, obviously. It is hardly my fault that you chose to hide away with your own friends and ignore what I was doing.”

“I never said it was your fault.”

“That is the implication.”

He glared. “No, Hermione, it isn’t the implication. I just didn’t know they were coming. We don’t talk anymore….”

“And that is my fault?”

“Again, I didn’t say that. It’s not about blame. It’s just… a shame that we don’t….”

She gazed evenly at his handsome face. “You know what has to happen, Tom. Now that you are securing alliances with your friends’ families for your mother, are you finally going to apologize for treating me ill and swear never to do it again?”

For a beautiful moment, he appeared as if he wanted to. Then his face changed, hardening with a mask of pride. “I have _not_ secured alliances with all of them,” he said, “and in any case, you owe me an apology too.”

Anger flared up in her. “Oh, _do_ I? For what, exactly?”

“For involving yourself with this ‘Friends of the Founders’ group. I’ve already said that their agenda is something other than mine—my family’s—and you are part of my family. These witches are probably going to spy on us. One of them is a Weasley.”

She fingered her wand, not pointing it at him, but still glad it was there. “They are not spies. They are my _friends._ The only thing on their ‘agenda’ that they have done is to swear Hogsmeade to Hogwarts—and the _parents_ of one of them did that. They aren’t doing anything against you, Tom. They are acting against the Wizards’ Council—you know, our common enemy?”

“They’re up to something else.”

“You have no evidence of that, merely suspicion. And if that’s what you believe—if you think my friends are spies—why don’t you go before them and read their minds? See for yourself.”

“I don’t mean that they would be deliberately coming here to spy, but if they overheard… certain things… then they would surely find that very interesting and report back to their families.”

“‘Certain things’ such as your intention to seek a hidden chamber, Tom? Or—a _crown?_ ‘Things’ like that? Perhaps you should be more careful of your discussions, if that’s what you are worried about, or even better, stop talking about such things.”

“Hermione, whose _side_ are you on?” he snarled, his voice dark and angry. He reached for her shoulders. She did not attempt to move away—she was sure she knew what was about to happen, and she wanted it to, wanted him to get a good hard shock for once. He met her eyes with his and looked deeply into them.

There was a brief moment of invasion as she felt his mental presence—but in the very next moment, the very next _thought,_ she slammed him out of her mind. He drew back as if a wave had crashed, gaping at her in astonishment. With almost involuntary reflexes, he put a hand to his forehead as if the violence of her Occlumency shield had given him a headache. Then he tried again.

The second time was more subtle and expert. She faced him calmly, gazing back into his dark eyes, seemingly allowing his mental presence entry—but not really. The seeking tendril of his thought darted about the surface memories in her mind, the superficial thoughts, but whenever she felt him trying to get to something deeper, she closed the door.

Finally he drew back and gazed at her, his face sour and deeply resentful. “You have been studying Occlumency with Lord Severus.” It was almost an accusation.

“I have indeed,” she said smugly.

“You—alone in a room with Lord Severus—”

“Your mother approved it, the door was always left open, and….” Hermione hesitated, deciding not to reveal the interest in Lady Merope that she had seen in Snape’s mind. She had promised, and it was not her secret. “He was always a perfect gentleman to me… at least in that regard,” she muttered, well aware that no one who knew the dour, sarcastic wizard would believe that description of his overall personality. “I never felt that he had the slightest interest in me in that respect. I merely learned Occlumency from him with your mother’s permission, as if he were a professor at Hogwarts.”

“You want to block me,” he said, disbelieving. “You don’t want me to be able to know what you’re thinking. You really have joined these ‘Friends,’ haven’t you?” he accused. “You have sided against me— _betraying_ me—”

Hermione was incensed. In a flash, she had the tip of her wand an inch away from his nose. “That’s enough, Tom Riddle. That is a very serious word, and you shouldn’t toss it about recklessly. I became an Occlumens because you need to learn to _ask_ instead of merely taking what you want from me—from my mind. I am a witch, and you are going to treat me with respect if I have to use my magic to make you.”

He glared. “The people who haven’t treated you with respect are the Wizards’ Council, the filthy Normans, and the Saxon Muggles. My people have always honored witches.”

“Then perhaps you should start to be more like them, should you not?” she said cuttingly. “You could start with honoring the privacy of my mind. If you want to know something, and you will treat me well again, then you can ask, and I’ll tell you. I might even let you see for yourself, since you like that— _if you ask.”_

Tom ignored this. “The Friends of the Founders—if you haven’t switched sides, then they are using you for some purpose.”

She laughed. “Tom, I doubt that your secret meetings with your friends, your discussions of crowns and chambers, are even a gleam in their eyes. If anyone outside your little circle even knew about it, you would be in deep trouble. _You_ aren’t the one they are fighting.”

“After my mother secures formal alliances with all my friends, that might change.”

“If it does, if the Friends of the Founders ever act against your family, I will stop associating with them, simple as that. I honor our contract, Tom. But the fact is that they haven’t done so, so I am not ‘betraying’ you. We are bound by the Codex of Wizarding Law, Tom, and under _our_ law, witches are not required to obey every little order that their husbands give—and you are not even my husband.” She put up her hand when he opened his mouth to argue. “Not in the eyes of the law, Tom. But if that’s how you see our relationship, then what does it say that you treat me as you do? I will be happy to reconcile when you’re ready to do what you know, in your conscience, that you ought to do.”

With that, she turned on her heels and continued on her path, leaving Tom standing in the grass staring after her. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to follow her, but that moment passed. His eyebrows narrowed, he huffed in derision, and he stalked back to the castle.

* * *

By the time the end of summer came, Hermione was more than ready to return to Hogwarts. Ginevra and Luna had only been able to stay for about a fortnight, and after that, she had been lonely again. Her confrontation with Tom had accomplished precisely nothing that she could tell. He had continued to avoid her, interacting with her strictly when it was proper to do so, and without a hint of warmth when he did. Over the course of the summer, she had also observed as more and more nobles came to swear defensive pacts with Lady Merope. She kept a tally, and at the end of the summer, the only family of his friends who had not allied with Merope was the Wilkes family. It was only a matter of time, she supposed.

At last the day came for them to go back to Scotland. Hermione clutched the house-elf’s thin hand as it Apparated her there. _I am going to focus on my studies,_ she told herself as she stood in the courtyard of the school. _I will achieve mastery of magic—perhaps even earlier than Tom does. I have been here for two years, and I want to become a master after a mere two more. Tom has had three._ This spiteful competitiveness comforted her, in a sad kind of way; it gave her a goal to work for. Tom _would_ respect her, one way or another.

“Hermione!”

She recognized that ethereal voice. A smile formed on her face as she walked over to where Luna stood, leaving Tom standing by himself as he waited for his friends to arrive.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Lord Rodolphus and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange did not have a happy marriage. Lestrange’s ailing father, who had died at a very young age for a wizard, had been determined to see an heir of the family born before his death, and he had made the arrangement with the Black family, the “token” English family that the Malfoys and Lestranges had decided to seat on the Wizards’ Council. Rabastan, the younger son, seemed to have some sort of “problem” that the family did not like to talk about; the old—well, not so old—man had been very insistent that Rodolphus must sire the heir. So the marriage had taken place, but Rodolphus had never cared for her. He had done his duty, and relatively soon, Adelaide was born, but after that they had rarely been intimate—and then it had ceased altogether because he took his pleasure elsewhere.

Some noblewomen would tolerate mistresses because they knew that they wore the ring and they would be the mother of the heir. However, Bellatrix had objected to her husband’s regular trysts. It was not because she was jealous of the women—she hardly cared about her husband’s affections—but rather, because Rodolphus had turned to Muggles. He had been unable to find any witches who would destroy their reputations and future marital prospects by agreeing to be a married man’s mistress. That was not surprising; young witches’ assumed capacity to bear future magical children made them extremely valuable, and even the poorest of the poor could find a wizard husband if they wanted a family. They did not have to settle for disgracing themselves. Bellatrix’s objection to the behavior was that it was dirty for a wizard to mate with a Muggle woman. She recalled the one time that an outraged Muggle mother had demanded audience with her, asserting that her daughter had been raped—but that was a joke. Witches could be raped. Muggles were inferior creatures that were there to be used as witches and wizards saw fit—even if Bellatrix disagreed with Rodolphus’s use of them. How she had screamed, under Bellatrix’s Cruciatus Curse…. Torture was enjoyable, a nice substitute now that Bellatrix did not want to touch her husband after he had sullied himself with Muggles….

At least Rodolphus had avoided siring any half-blood bastards on the Muggles, Bellatrix consoled herself. He had forced them all to take the potion, which worked on Muggles as well as witches. In fact, it worked _better,_ since Muggles could not use the inner magic of their force of will to undermine the potion’s effects. And she herself had a lovely daughter, who was more a Black than a Lestrange. Her dear Adelaide looked more and more like her with each passing day, and she had robust health. The Black blood would increase in the next generation, since Draco Malfoy was her first cousin through Bellatrix’s sister. Meanwhile, Rodolphus was approaching the age at which his father had taken ill. Before long, Bellatrix hoped, the blood-traitor would manifest the hereditary weakness of his family, and then, under cover of his illness, she could end the deterioration early. Yes, in Bellatrix’s opinion, the future was bright.

But there were some problems in the present that had to be resolved first, political problems, and Bellatrix was entirely in agreement with Rodolphus on politics. The blood-traitor Lady Riddle was a thorn in everyone’s side—really, that entire family was. She herself had attempted, a year and a half ago, to assassinate the Mudblood that Lady Riddle had brought into the magical nobility, to avenge the harm to her beloved daughter’s reputation. It had not succeeded. Then Lord Malfoy had apparently declared that Lady Riddle should marry Caractacus Burke, only to discover that the blood-traitor had protected the dirty Muggle to whom she had been married with a shield that only her own blood could pass through. Rodolphus himself had been involved in the murder attempt, and the whispers were that the Wizards’ Council were working on a plan to deal with that shield in some way….

But the worst offense of all was when Lady Riddle had declared the Lestranges—naming Bellatrix by name!—as her enemies, because they had accepted the oaths of the Carrows. That act was what the forced marriage to Burke was supposed to punish, but since they had been unable to kill Sir Thomas, there had been _no_ punishment for it. That was wrong. It was an affront to the proper order of things. She and Rodolphus were at least in agreement about _that._

A loud thud sounded, and Bellatrix looked up from where she sat in her parlor. Rodolphus was finally here. His robes were unkempt. _Probably fresh from a Muggle wench’s cunt,_ she thought with disgust—but it didn’t matter. They had important things to discuss. She reached for the pitcher of wine that sat on the side table and poured herself a goblet.

He sat down, smoothing his robes, and peered at her. “How are you, my lady?” he said stiffly.

She sipped her wine. “Very well. I have been waiting for you.”

“I have been occupied. But since I am here now, let us begin.” He stretched his bony arms in front of him. “I have returned to the manor of that Muggle Riddle since the first night, with Burke along to inspect the blood shield further. It is definitely the second-strongest possible, which can only be cast with her own lifeblood to anchor it. Burke has confirmed, too—he suspected, but he has now confirmed—that the shield can be penetrated only by the witch herself or one who shares half that blood—in other words, a parent, a full sibling, or a child.”

“Her parents and brother are dead!” Bellatrix exclaimed.

“They are indeed.” Rodolphus let that sentence hang in the air, the unspoken implication weighing heavily. “I have discussed a plan with Abraxas and Arcturus… though Arcturus is reluctant.” He gazed at her, his dislike for her apparent in his eyes as he spoke of her relative. “And that brings me to the next point.”

“Your suspicion that Arcturus is plotting against Lord Malfoy,” she said reluctantly, the words sour on her tongue. He had mentioned that idea to her before. She did not believe it; she was sure that he merely resented the influence of someone from her family on the Head of the Council.

Rodolphus smiled evilly. “You don’t like to hear of treason in your family, I see. Well, in that case, I have good news for you, _my lady.”_

A suspicion suddenly dawned in Bellatrix’s mind. “You don’t say that—”

“Lord Armand Malfoy is a great man and a great wizard,” Rodolphus said, true admiration in his voice. “I believe that, in the worst case, he will someday have a great statue of himself in this country, to mark how he led the wizards here to civilize this land. In the best case… well,” he said, smiling to himself. “However, there are those who resent his long life. Those who have ambitions. Those who… would like very much to be ‘Lord Malfoy.’”

Bellatrix’s eyes widened. “Abraxas,” she breathed.

Rodolphus nodded. “I had the great honor of speaking with his high lordship alone, and sadly, his memories are… muddled somewhat at times. Coincidentally—or, rather, _not_ so coincidentally, I believe, these are times when he apparently decided to choose a weak course of action against our enemies. He believes that Abraxas has persuaded him to these decisions, sometimes with Arcturus’s presence, sometimes not.” He glared outward into the room. “I should have seen it. He _lives_ with Abraxas, who is getting old in his own right. Meanwhile, Lord Lucius rules Godric’s Hollow, while Abraxas has to wait on an old man instead of ruling the family estate, as he undoubtedly thinks he should at his age. If my suspicion is right, Abraxas also has to supply something that will prolong his lordship’s life even more. It is obvious what is going on.”

Bellatrix’s eyes were glittering. “And my noble cousin…?”

“Arcturus is probably trying to stick to his own affairs and play both sides as well as he can, not wanting to get in the middle of a family fight. I do think that the inconsistent behavior from his high lordship is due to his own son’s actions.”

She breathed deeply. “If you can prove that Abraxas is a traitor, then it will be a great thing for this family. His high lordship will make you his most trusted advisor….”

“He should, yes.”

She grinned. “Then get to it, my lord.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Hermione sighed sadly as she ate her dinner. This was her fifteenth birthday, and although she had not had observations of it before she entered the wizarding community, she had still become accustomed to it for the past two years. This year, without an affectionate word, Tom had left her a perfunctory gift of a book—a fine thing, certainly, but she rather doubted that he had chosen _Witch-Magic of the Celts_ because he thought this was a topic of special interest to her. He was trying to make a point.

 _If you really do respect me,_ she thought sullenly, _then you yourself have to show that. You can’t simply give me a book about how people with your blood respected witches and expect me to find that good enough._

At the end of the meal, she arose from her seat and prepared to return to her common room. As she filed out of the Great Hall, she felt a tap on her arm. She turned around to greet Ginevra and Luna.

“We have a meeting,” Ginevra said quietly. “And I think there is something special planned.”

Hermione’s heart lifted, as her friend appeared to be implying that the group had done something to mark her birthday. A smile bloomed on her face. “Of course,” she said. “The meeting is right now?”

Ginevra nodded. Hermione smiled again and linked arms with her friends, as they began to make their way up the many flights of stairs to the seventh floor. When they entered the Come-and-Go Room, Hermione’s eyes lit up at the sight. There was a plate of spiced sweets and several pitchers of cider. She gazed around the room at the others—her _friends,_ she thought warmly. Ginevra, Luna, and Harry, of course, but also Neville, Susan Bones, Ernest Macmillan, and—who was that?

Ginevra noticed. Taking Hermione’s arm, she whisked her over to the new boy. “Ron,” she said, her voice tense. “This is Lady Hermione Granger. Lady Hermione, this is my brother Ronald.”

The red-haired boy had an unpleasant, blatantly jealous and resentful sneer on his face at the sight of Hermione’s costly robes. It only heightened when his sister introduced Hermione by her noble title. “Delighted to meet you,” the wizard finally spat insincerely, extending his hand briefly for her to shake. He withdrew it quickly and peered at her, his gaze darting from the emerald ring on her finger upward to her face. “Are we soon going to be joined by your _noble betrothed?”_

Hermione stared at him, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. Just what was his problem, anyway? “I highly doubt it,” she said coldly. “But if we were, I hope that would not be a problem. Ha—Potter and I are, after all, in the same House with him, and the three of us have associated. He is certainly not a friend of the Malfoys, either.”

“His mother swore the oath of fealty to Armand Malfoy.”

Ginevra was glaring at her brother. “We welcome anyone who wants to be an ally,” she said pointedly. “I myself learned to accept Slytherins if they are on our side. You can too, Ronald.”

He sneered back. “They have to prove themselves first—prove that they care about something more than fine robes and titles.” He glared at the brocade on Hermione’s robes, though the look was obviously tinged with bitter jealousy.

“I beg your pardon,” Hermione said hotly. “I do not have to prove anything to _you._ I have been attending these meetings for some time, whereas this is your first.” She gazed levelly at him. “Now, if you please, I think we all should enjoy those sweets. It is my birthday, after all.”

“Yes, let’s certainly celebrate the birthday of a noble girl,” Ronald sneered under his breath as she headed toward the front of the room—but she heard anyway. She just ignored it.

She took a plate from the stack that the room had apparently generated for them and helped herself to food. As she went back to take a seat, she noticed that the red-haired wizard had greedily piled his plate high with sweets. Shaking her head, she began to eat her birthday candies.

Finally Harry and Neville ascended to the podium and called the meeting to order. “First of all,” Harry said, “let us all wish Lady Hermione a happy fifteenth birthday.”

Hermione smiled at him as the small group applauded. He met her eyes and smiled back awkwardly. As she met his green eyes with hers, a strange—no, she realized with alarm, a _very_ familiar warmth and coziness formed in her. _It’s only because he did a kind thing for me,_ she told herself. _That’s all it is._ She fingered the ring on her hand as if it were a talisman, forcing herself to think of Tom and the intimate moments they had shared in the past. To her relief, that flood of memories overwhelmed the unsettling thought that she had just had.

“I would also like to welcome our new member, Ronald Weasley, Ginevra’s brother,” Harry said, his words and smile forced. “I am told that the Weasley family is taking some important steps to improve our position, and anyone from the family is welcome here.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at that. What did he mean? Was it only what Ginevra had told her already, that her brother William was seeking an alliance with goblins? Or was there something else afoot?

“In the meantime, we called the meeting tonight to make an important announcement about our own goals and… intentions. As you all know, Neville’s parents have sworn fealty to Dumbledore. We don’t yet know what the Wizards’ Council will do in response to this. It is a perfectly legal and normal act, but Lord Malfoy is a vindictive person who does not like any challenge to his power. In short, we think that we should practice defensive magic and pool our knowledge for our own good.”

There were rumblings of concern at this. “Are you suggesting… practice to fight against the Wizards’ Council?” Macmillan said, rather alarmed. Hermione rather wondered the same.

“We would only do that if we’re attacked first,” Harry assured him at once. “Only if Malfoy breaks his word first. I’m not advocating treason. There are serious repercussions to a wizard or witch breaking an oath. I’m only suggesting that we should be prepared to _defend_ ourselves.”

In a bit, the members of the small group partnered to practice defensive spells with each other. Reluctantly Ginevra turned to her brother, Harry with Neville, and Ernest with Susan, leaving Hermione to partner with Luna. She felt a bit guilty about this; Luna was such a small, fairylike, innocent witch—

Hermione almost didn’t react in time to the stunning spell that came her way. Startled out of her patronizing attitude, she turned to Luna and began to duel.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

The cloaked and hooded wizard huddled in the corner, trembling before the other wizard who stood before him.

“I don’t want to be an oathbreaker,” the man whimpered. “I don’t want to swear falsely. The consequences to my family could be terrible.”

“You must choose between loyalty to a blood-traitor or loyalty to your rightful lord,” the other wizard said in a cold voice. “We all face _difficulties_ in life. The repercussions will pass eventually.”

The hooded man whimpered again. “My _son,_ my lord. I can’t ask that of my son. He’s barely out of boyhood.”

“I care not what you tell your son,” Rodolphus Lestrange said, waves of contempt rolling off his tongue. “Don’t tell him the full truth, if you like. Make him an unwitting tool, if you’re so damned worried about broken oaths.”

“I just don’t want my son to betray a friend. It’s… wrong.”

“Your son’s ‘friend’ is hardly worth any loyalty… but it doesn’t matter. I want it done by whatever means. There is treason afoot. The damned Longbottoms, forming an alliance with Dumbledore, along with those fucking traitors in Godric’s Hollow… the blood-traitor Lady Riddle, seeking out alliances with all the _native_ noble families… that son of hers, going about blatantly defying Lord Malfoy… I believe the treason even reaches into the core of the Malfoy family itself.”

The hooded wizard gasped.

“Yes,” Lestrange said, leaning in. “I believe that Lord Abraxas is manipulating his own father into doing his bidding. It is possible that Lord Black is part of it. _I_ stand with his high lordship. Do you?”

The wizard twisted the cloth of his wide sleeves in his hands. “Of course,” he finally said.

“Then prove it. Swear the oath, pass the information to your son, and get that spell _brought down_ that we can move forward.”

The hooded wizard swallowed hard as he nodded.


	25. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you once again!
> 
> I hate to do this, but I feel at this point that I need to. I am not sure if the story’s recent dark turn—and the separation of Tom and Hermione—has driven off readers altogether, or if people are still reading but don’t particularly like this stage of the story and just keep silent about that fact for fear of offending me. But whatever the reason, unlike the earlier parts of this fic, lately there just hasn’t been that much feedback about specifics. I hate to be that person begging for reviews—I really do—and this isn’t about my vanity or the review count. I just don’t know what the feedback drop-off means—like, if I should tweak less critical details to make the story more palatable at the moment (I don’t mean a course adjustment with the plot itself). I realize that this phase of the story isn’t pleasant, and honestly, it’s not supposed to be, but if you think I’m overplaying the darkness, please let me know. I do welcome civil, constructive criticism. (I promise, I will only chew out people for one thing: arrogantly and judgmentally asserting that the text depicts something that it _objectively_ doesn’t, and then using their incorrect reading to bash me/the story.)

Tom lay on his bed at Hogwarts brooding. His ritual on the first of May had certainly borne fruit; all of his Lords of Beltane— _even more appropriate,_ he thought—had convinced their families to swear pacts with his mother except for Wilkes. The alliance with that family was probably inevitable, too. In that regard, he had made very significant progress toward one of his goals.

However, everything else seemed to be stagnant. He had made no progress toward finding the Chamber of Slytherin in the school. He had not been able to read any additional books in his family library, nor had his friends. When they were visiting him over the summer, he had told them to try to read the books that his mother had hexed against him, but it turned out that the hexes were not specific to him. He also had not been able to find the forbidden titles in the Hogwarts library. Tom wondered about that. He had certainly seen books about eyebrow-raising magic in the school library; why would information about English history be banned? The fact that the school was in Scotland was surely irrelevant; Tom had seen plenty of books about other periods of history. Who had kept these books out of the Hogwarts library, and for what purpose?

 _Is it that they are about the history of a family that is related to Slytherin?_ Tom wondered. _And after Slytherin departed the school, the remaining Founders eliminated those references? Some of them are about Slytherin himself, too. Or is it that some of them talk about the legend of Arthur in a way that’s highly unflattering to Merlin? Were the books about that ever in the school at all?_ He had no answers. One thing for certain, though, was that in Tom’s view, the leaders of the school were not his friends or allies if they would keep those titles out of the library. They could not possibly have an agenda that overlapped with his, in that case. Perhaps Hermione was right and it was not an affront to him that Mayor Longbottom swore Hogsmeade to the school, but it also was not a development that he should cheer. It was quite probable that the High Masters of the school had had their own agenda ever since Slytherin left—and where had he gone? What had become of him? Had he left at all, Tom wondered darkly, or had he been murdered? It seemed unlikely, but in the absence of the truth, he would have to wonder. Tom wanted to know just what everyone was _hiding_ from him, especially his mother. He would not even have to look to the school for these books if his mother had allowed him to read them at home.

He was also increasingly annoyed with Hermione. She was being very stubborn, and Tom felt that what had been a principled stand, albeit one that he disagreed with for pragmatic reasons— _“you may not touch me until you apologize”—_ had become something more hostile and personal. He still smarted at her reaction to his questioning that summer about his surprise at her friends’ arrival. She had instantly assumed that he was blaming her, when that had not been his intent at all. He really had just wanted to talk with her again, but not if she was going to issue ultimatums and presume he was some sort of enemy.

 _Does she?_ he thought. She also seemed to be actively against his ambitions now, instead of merely thinking them dangerous or objecting to the way that he treated her in order to gain allies for them. He did not forget that she had told him in that same conversation to stop talking about the Chamber of Slytherin and his descent from Mordred. That sounded very much as if she _opposed_ his goals in their own right, a change that occurred when she spent more and more time with Potter and Longbottom’s group. Tom resented it. What did she think would happen after their wedding? Did she really imagine that he would approve of her going to clandestine meetings for purposes that did not help the family— _her_ family, at that point? Perhaps he could not legally stop her from it, but why would she want to do that instead of supporting him? Even leaving aside the domestic discord that it would create, if he achieved all his ambitions, then she would be a queen someday, and witches would be revered equally to wizards as they had been in the ancient clans.

Tom could not think of a satisfactory answer. To his mind, Hermione was acting very much like an opponent. Two years ago, she had been so dutiful, so instinctively loyal to her betrothed—even if she had barely known him then—that she would deliberately get herself placed in his Hogwarts House despite it being not a great fit. _He_ was the one who hadn’t liked the restrictions on his freedom. Tom reflected on the irony that their roles were reversed, and Hermione was now pushing him away and consorting with other people without his presence or approval, including young wizards—a decision that would have been all but unthinkable two years earlier. _She can block me from Legilimency, too,_ he thought with disquiet. What if she was doing this, despite the expected wedding, even despite their previous intimacy, because she was considering plans of her own—plans that no longer included him?

* * *

_The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole._

“Oh, _Percy!”_ Molly Weasley exclaimed, throwing her arms around her favorite son. “I’m so proud of you!”

Percy Weasley— _Sir Percival—_ awkwardly hugged his mother in return, patting her back. “Thank you, Mother.”

“This changes everything!” she exclaimed.

He smiled thinly. “I am the newest knight,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to make too much of the position.”

“That may be, but you are also a wizard—I would wager the only knight with magic,” she declared. “That matters. I am sure that he will take notice of you very quickly and you will rise past the Muggle knights in no time.”

Percy smiled again. “I hope so.”

“Whom to tell, whom to tell,” she said to herself, gazing around the room thoughtfully. “The Longbottoms, certainly.”

“Yes,” Percy said. “What is the code they use for us? ‘Robins’?”

“It is, and you have brought back such valuable nourishment for our cause,” she declared. “Now we just need Bill to return….”

“I hope he can come back with more than goblins.”

“So do we all, my dear.” Molly Weasley turned her head sharply at the sound of scurrying. “Another one?” she said, scowling at the sight of a rat’s tail disappearing into a hole in the wall. “One would think that the owl would catch it.”

“Mother, Errol is too old to catch much of anything. I intend to buy another owl, though, when I leave.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Hermione rose from the table, her robes falling in smooth, silken lines down her form. She was going to another Friends of the Founders meeting, and Ginevra had told her that this one would feature some important news about her own family. She wondered what it might be. One brother was trying to negotiate with goblins abroad, one was interested in Welsh dragons…. Preoccupied with her own thoughts and speculations, Hermione did not even notice Tom’s approach.

Walking quickly, he reached her and took her arm firmly. She whirled around to face the person who had accosted her and found herself staring into a pair of dark, familiar, and very angry eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked him.

“Are you going to another meeting with _Potter?”_ he snarled.

She recoiled in a rush of sudden anger. “I am,” she snapped, yanking her arm away from him. “What of it?”

“I asked you this once, and I will ask you again now: _Whose side are you on?”_ His voice was low and dangerous, almost inaudible even to her.

“I am on the side of people who treat me as I deserve,” she said, matching his tone, glaring at him. “People who don’t grab me in the Great Hall as if I am an enemy.”

“You aren’t an enemy,” he said slowly, his voice still very quiet. “You’re just refusing to see certain things, and so is Potter. Their families are up to something—”

“If you really believe that, then why don’t you come to a meeting yourself and try to deduce what you think it is?”

Tom considered that. “Perhaps I will.” He thought for another moment. “Yes. I’ll do just that.” He offered her his arm, this time in a gentlemanly manner. Reluctantly she took it.

Hermione made her way to the seventh floor. It felt odd to make this walk with Tom, but she was both relieved and righteously satisfied that it was finally happening. He would surely see for himself that the Friends— _her_ friends—were not up to anything untoward. Perhaps this would be the beginning of a reconciliation between them, and maybe even an alliance between her friends and his….

They reached the Come-and-Go Room. Hermione gazed at the expanse of wall, thinking of the group. In a moment, the outline appeared, then the door itself. She took the handle and opened it, revealing the meeting room and all of her familiar associates. There was Harry, surprise evident on his face at the sight of Tom. Longbottom was next to him on one side and Luna Lovegood on the other. There were Macmillan and Susan Bones. Ginevra was nearby, with her brother Ronald—and a blonde witch that Hermione did not know clinging to his arm.

“Riddle—that is, Lord Thomas,” Harry corrected himself at once, coming to the door. “Welcome. I am so glad you joined us this evening.” He gave Hermione a smile of real pleasure, apparently convinced that they had resolved their differences.

“Just a minute,” said Ron Weasley, petulance in his voice. “If Lavender and I had to sign that parchment, so does he. He should not get an exception because he’s _noble.”_

“Sign a parchment?” Tom repeated, his gaze shifting at once to Hermione.

“Yes,” Harry said, as Neville Longbottom brought it. “Everyone has to sign it if they attend our meetings. It says—”

Tom’s eyes had already fixed upon one signature in particular. _“Hermione_ signed this?” he sputtered.

Her heart sank. “It was ages ago!” she exclaimed. “It only means that we won’t tell Malfoy allies about the group—”

Tom jerked his arm away from her and stared at her in outrage. “You signed a loyalty oath?” He gazed at the offending parchment. “That bears a hex! You took a magically binding _loyalty oath_ to these people—” He stared at each member of the group in turn, disgust blossoming on his face, culminating with a glare at her that broke her heart all over again. Then he turned to Harry. “No, Potter. I won’t sign it.” He sneered at Hermione as if she were something dirty, then turned in a furious swirl of robes and marched away, his footfalls sounding in the hallway.

No one dared speak. Hermione felt like crying, but she was not sure if it was from sadness or anger—or both at once. Well aware that the others were avoiding looking at her, she made her way across the room to a chair and sat down.

A catty snicker broke the silence. Hermione turned around to face the blonde girl—Lavender, Ronald Weasley had said was her name—who had uttered it. Ron took her arm and smirked.

“Erm… good evening to everyone,” Harry said, ascending to the front of the room. He exchanged a quick, sympathetic glance with Hermione. “We have a new member tonight, Lavender Brown. A special welcome to her.” He cleared his throat. “And now, Ginevra Weasley has a report to give the group about her older brothers.”

Ginevra rose. “Brother,” she corrected with a smile. “Just one of them—so far.” She took her place behind the podium and gazed out. “My brother Percy—Percival—has been knighted by His Majesty the King. He is spending some time with our family, but shortly, after Yule and Christmas, he is going to leave to begin his service.”

There was a smattering of congratulations. “What lord is he going to serve?” Ernest Macmillan asked.

Ginevra looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry—they told me, and Ron, by owl. I don’t actually know that part. They, my parents, also said that the news must not go any farther than this group, which is sworn to secrecy, of course. They are concerned that the family could be targeted if it were widely known.”

“Is he going to war?”

Ginevra grimaced. “I don’t know. He may be.”

“But what purpose does it serve for wizards to fight Muggles’ wars?” Macmillan exclaimed. “I apologize, Miss Weasley, and you too, Ronald—no doubt this is a great thing for your brother.”

“I don’t know if it has anything to do with our group,” she said, flustered. “But it does raise the profile of my family, and anything that helps our families must be good.”

“That’s true,” he said, mollified. “Well—Godspeed to him. At least he can protect himself against the Muggles’ weapons with magic.”

As she took her seat again, Hermione thought about what she had just heard. She could not pinpoint how, but that report had unsettled her in some intangible way. _What if Tom was right?_ she thought uncomfortably. _That sure sounds as if the older Weasleys are hiding something. Sir Percival must be doing something that could get him harmed by the Malfoys—but what?_ She reflected on the fact that Tom had thrown his tantrum about the innocuous “loyalty oath,” which only referred to keeping information from Malfoy’s supporters. What would he have made of this? She rather wished he had heard it now.

As in the previous meeting, they had a period of magic practice. Hermione enjoyed this part. It helped her with her own goal of achieving mastery at the end of her fourth year at Hogwarts, the same time that Tom was expecting to be acclaimed a master—though it would be five years for him. She felt that she was getting better at dueling, under Harry’s tutelage. He seemed to have a natural knack for it.

After that, the young people mingled. Hermione quickly attached herself to Luna, who approached her sympathetically. Luna was peculiar, but she often said exactly the right thing, and this was no exception.

“I’m very sorry about Lord Thomas,” she said. “He should be kinder to you.”

“I agree,” Hermione said unhappily.

“It’s a shame that he was not here for Ginevra’s report,” Luna continued. “I think it is all very suspicious, don’t you? Not Ginevra herself, but her parents’ secrecy.”

“Watch what you say about my family,” snarled a male voice. Hermione and Luna turned to face Ron Weasley, who was hand-in-hand with Lavender.

“Oh, hello, Ronald,” Luna said. “I only meant that it was odd that they didn’t tell her. Do you know what it means, then?”

“It means just what she said,” he replied. “Lord Malfoy would target my family. He grants titles to wizards and witches, right? He was the viceroy for all things related to the magical population. So if they went above him, to the Muggle king himself, he would not like that.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed, “but he too is subject to the Muggle king. There is nothing wrong with what your brother did. And besides, could they truly keep it a secret from him for the rest of your brother’s life?”

Emboldened, Hermione spoke up in support of Luna. “She makes a good point. How _could_ your brother and your parents keep it a secret indefinitely? There must be more planned.”

“So what if there is?” he said defensively. “We are all enemies of Malfoy, here… _aren’t we?”_

Hermione stepped forward, her eyebrows narrowed. “Do not ever insinuate that I would be an ally of Armand Malfoy. On the day I first met him, he humiliated me by making me perform wandless magic on command and then denying me admission to this school. He tried to keep me out of Hogwarts even after I was betrothed to Tom. Members of families allied with him have insulted me, attacked me, tried to _kill_ me—you don’t know anything about what Armand Malfoy and his supporters have done against me.” She clutched her wand threateningly.

Ron was silenced for a moment, but then he recovered. “Yes, I know about your ‘betrothal,’ of course.” He patted Lavender’s arm. “Riddle has mocked my family for renouncing their title when Malfoy first came to the country, but the advantage of that is that we don’t have to marry people who don’t like us for political reasons.” Lavender beamed soppily at him as they sauntered away together.

Hermione raised her wand. Furiously, unhappily, she cast a charm to summon several robins into existence—not real robins, but magical similes. They were good enough. With another swish of her wand and a silent curse, she sent the birds speeding at Ron and Lavender, their sharp beaks out. As the smug young couple fought off the little monsters, Hermione stifled a sob and fled the room.

Weasley couldn’t be _right,_ could he?

* * *

Tom was furious. He paced back and forth in the bedroom, reflecting on what he had just learned. Hermione had sworn a loyalty oath! She had sworn a vow of secrecy about the Friends of the Founders—supposedly one that pertained only to Malfoy allies, but if that were really true, then why had she never told him about this little detail? What had happened at these meetings that she had never revealed to him? What had happened at this very one after he had left?

Tom had struggled for some time with Hermione’s part-Norman ancestry, but eventually he had decided that people could not help their birth, that she was part-English as well, and that the _real_ problem was with Norman lords who stole the seats of the rightful English nobles and then proceeded to oppress the English people. Hermione’s parents did not fit that description. He had managed to make a certain degree of peace with his own conflict about the matter—but now he was wondering if she was disloyal to him because she was part-Norman. He did not like to consider the possibility, and he was not remotely convinced that it was true, but the idea had wormed itself into his brain at last.

 _Mother knows that we have been intimate,_ he thought. _I hope this theory is wrong. I hope that Hermione’s allegiance to this group has nothing to do with her ancestry, because an allegiance based on that will be very hard to change. God knows I know about that. But if it’s right, then I can’t possibly marry her. I will have to avail myself of Mother’s promise to me… but would she still grant it, since she knows about us?_ Tom felt ill at the thought. For the first time ever, he wished for a brief moment that he had never touched her.

 _It may not be true,_ he reminded himself. _I should not assume it is._ He realized that he needed, somehow, to find out… but how? Hermione could block his Legilimency. If he asked her, she would be deeply affronted. She certainly wouldn’t admit it. How could he find out?

 _If I can somehow find out what this group is doing, then that might answer it for me,_ he thought. _Maybe if I could corner one of the others for Legilimency… or eavesdrop…._

Tom sighed and ran his hands through his black hair. He would have to do that. It was distasteful, in a way, but in his view, it was unavoidable. He smoothed his hair and walked over to his desk, where the notes and bottled memories from his own private meetings lay concealed in a drawer. He opened it and took them out.

 _The Wilkes family still has not sworn a pact with my mother,_ he thought. _Perhaps I should look elsewhere for disloyalty. A push first, though._ He rose from the chair and went to the common room to find Rob Wilkes.

He met the wizard halfway down the corridor for the boys’ dormitories. Wilkes was excited, waving a letter that he had apparently received by owl.

“Riddle! I have great news,” he exclaimed.

Tom paused in the hallway. “And what is that, Wilkes? Quietly, please.”

“Or silently,” Wilkes said, grinning as he passed the letter to Tom for him to read.

Tom accepted it and began to scan it quickly. His face lit up as he read the scrawls of Wilkes’s father, Raymond. _What an incredible coincidence!_ he thought. _This ambition really is charmed, even after summer has ended._ He recalled the beautiful image of the crown-like shape ascending the Beltane flames. He returned the letter to Wilkes and smirked. “This is great news indeed,” he said. “I’m very glad that your father has seen reason.”

“The alliances are complete,” Wilkes observed.

“They are,” Tom agreed, “and they are going to change everything.” He touched the medallion on his robes, changing it from a solid black face to the Celtic Triquetra. A frown passed over his face at that. He drew his wand, pointed it at the object, and—his brow furrowed in concentration—murmured a lengthy spell. The tip of his wand showered emerald green sparks upon the medallion, and the design on it changed to the _first_ symbol Tom had created for his group: Celtic knotwork surrounding the Ouroboros, encircling a raven bearing a crown.

* * *

Hermione was miserable. Part of her mind assured her that Ron Weasley was merely being childish and cruel because he had taken a dislike to her—a dislike that seemed to be based in envy—but then she remembered that fit that Tom had thrown upon seeing the list of signatures. _He has already suggested before that he thinks I am disloyal to him,_ she thought. _This might just confirm it in his mind._

Then, too, there was the possibility that Tom was correct about the Friends’ families. What _was_ Ginevra’s brother doing as a new knight, and why had her family not told her such basic details as whom he would be serving and where? Was it really just as Ron had said, that Armand Malfoy would be offended that a wizard had obtained a title directly from the king? It was certainly not illegal… the Conqueror and his first successors may have delegated that royal power to Malfoy when it came to wizards, but that did not mean that the king could not do it himself for wizards anymore if he saw fit.

 _Could Ginevra’s brother have deceived him about the fact that his family would not swear to Malfoy?_ Hermione wondered. _That would certainly explain wanting to keep it quiet. If Malfoy found out about this knighthood and told the king about that bit of family history, it might lead to big trouble for the Weasleys—but only if he cares about Malfoy. He may not… but that does not mean that a king who is at war would take the trouble to protect the commoner family of a single knight if Malfoy threatened them. Perhaps they do want to protect their family from Malfoy rather than from the Crown… but as Luna pointed out, that cannot last indefinitely. Whichever it is—protect themselves from the king, or from Malfoy—there must be some long-term plan to get rid of Malfoy, since he was the one their forefathers refused to swear to._ Hermione sighed. Tom was correct, then. The Friends had another agenda.

But based on what she currently knew and deduced, Tom was _not_ correct that the agenda was opposed to him. He wanted Malfoy gone too. There was no reason that Hermione knew of for why they should not be allies, and it would make Lady Merope’s position much more powerful if they were.

Was it time for her to swallow her own pride and make amends with Tom? She considered it for a brief moment before deciding against it. She had done nothing to him. He had treated her in a very inappropriate way for any witch, but especially for the woman he was supposed to marry. He had continued for several months to make suspicious, distrustful accusations to her, questioning her loyalty to him and his mother. He had not apologized for any of it, and she was not entirely convinced that he believed even now that he should. If she went to him without holding to her word, he would take that as confirmation that he had done nothing wrong. In the Muggle world, the world she had grown up in, Hermione realized that she might have done it anyway and accepted it as her place as a woman. But her horizons were broader, and she was a witch among other witches and wizards. She knew differently now.

She rose from her chair and left her bedchamber, passing through the Slytherin common room without speaking to anyone. She made her way upstairs to the Great Hall, sure that there would be a few people seated at the tables despite the fact that it was not mealtime. She was correct. There was Harry, and Luna was next to him.

Hermione made sure that they did not seem to be in a personal, private conversation before taking her seat next to them. Luna gazed at her. “Hello, Hermione. You look sad.”

“I’m all right, Luna,” she said.

“It’s because Lord Thomas said those things,” she said astutely. “He was very wrong to act that way. He should not say things like that to you at all, but it was especially wrong of him to do it in front of other people.”

What could she even say to that? It was all too true.

“Yes, Luna,” Harry said, giving Hermione a pained look. “That may be, but I’m sure this isn’t making Hermione feel better.”

“No, it’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Hermione said at once. “I was questioning things in my own mind before I came here, because”—she lowered her voice to nearly a whisper—“it seems that he was right that some of our associates’ families are up to more than they say they are.”

Harry looked uncomfortable and a little bit irritated at that. “Luna and I were just talking about that,” he said, “and I wonder if my parents and godfather are part of it. Their letters lately have been very… cagey. I cannot explain exactly how, and I doubt you would notice unless you had corresponded with them a lot before and knew them very well, as I do. There’s just something different about their recent correspondence. I also wonder about Neville’s parents. If it has to do with”—he spoke in a hush—“removing Malfoy, then they almost have to be part of it. No one family can do that by themselves. I wonder what Sir Percival is really doing.”

“So do I,” Hermione muttered. “I wish I could find out.”

“It won’t be long before we visit our families for the winter holidays,” Harry said. “I can see what I can find out from mine.”

“And I from my father,” Luna added. She gazed at Hermione. “You are fostered with Lord Thomas’s mother, aren’t you?”

Hermione nodded.

“You can send me owls if you become lonely,” she stated. “He should be kind to you again, like Harry is kind to me, but if he isn’t ready to do that yet, then please don’t let him keep you unhappy.”

Hermione still did not quite understand Luna, and her blunt manner of saying exactly what she thought was still a bit jarring, but at times like this, she was very glad that Luna did.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Lord Armand Malfoy smiled arrogantly as he surveyed the small family dining room. His son Abraxas and his loyal ally Rodolphus Lestrange were there, enjoying his fine wine, as they discussed what to do next. Lestrange had come with good news: The plan for the Riddle situation was in motion. Hopefully, one problem would be resolved relatively soon.

However, despite the good tidings that he brought, Lestrange looked displeased about something. Malfoy could not work out what it might be, even as he studied his fellow nobleman’s face. Lestrange appeared wary and suspicious about something. Malfoy glanced at the goblet before him. It held only wine, but perhaps Lestrange had figured out what “potion” he drank and disapproved of it. He would not have thought Lestrange capable of either thing, though. The fellow was not that bright, for one, and he certainly was in no position to get on a moral pedestal. Malfoy knew full well that Rodolphus took his pleasure from half the Muggle wenches in his fief’s village, which was a disgusting thing for a pureblood wizard to do—but in a way, who could blame the man for looking outside his marriage for that? Lady Bellatrix might be half Rosier, with good blood from civilized people on that side, but the other half of her family was from this barbarous country where wizards still let witches defy them. Perhaps their magic was sometimes equal in power to that of a wizard, but it was more volatile and prone to emotional outbursts. Lady Bellatrix was proof enough of that.

Well, if Lestrange disapproved of his potion, he had best keep it to himself, Malfoy resolved. He was the high lord of the wizards and witches of all lands that the Muggle king—or his client monarch in Scotland—ruled. His word was law now. Really, there was little point in even having a Wizards’ Council anymore. It was a relic of that primitive, rambunctious institution that they had called the Wizengamot. The time was drawing near when he should just dissolve this Council and place the magical people of this land under the authority of a single lord.

He decided to propose just that. “I have been thinking,” he began, his sharp gaze darting from Abraxas to Lestrange. “When your grandfather first came to this country with me”—he nodded to Lestrange—“along with the others, we decided upon certain things in order to placate the natives. Their Wizengamot would be replaced with a Wizards’ Council, they would be allowed to keep their titles if they swore to me, their school could admit Mudbloods if they were pledged to wizards or witches of known magical blood… but eighty years have passed, and most of my generation has died, as well as some of the one after mine.” He smiled at Abraxas in a way that was almost a leer. “They have had time to get accustomed to the new order, and most of them have grown up knowing nothing else.”

“That is all true, my lord,” Lestrange said deferentially.

“Well, I think the time has now come to consider dissolving the Wizards’ Council. We have already made the biggest move to do so, of course, with the law granting lawmaking power to each of us—in other words, to me. I realize that this would be a loss to your family, Lestrange, but I would offer you some compensation for it.”

Abraxas had listened to this speech with growing indignation. His father might be right that most of the witches and wizards currently alive knew nothing else, but they did know about their country’s magical traditions. Tradition was extremely important to magical people. They also knew the reason for the Wizards’ Council. Abraxas did not believe for a second that his father could dissolve the Council without objections from the populace, even though he personally would someday benefit from it if it happened. _Unless Father has other plans for me,_ he thought bitterly. What was that ugly look about when Father had spoken of most of his—Abraxas’s—generation having died? Did Father really intend to extend his own life indefinitely, even if it meant seeing his own offspring die of old age first? And what would Lestrange—and Arcturus Black, once he learned of it—think of having the little power they held taken away?

Lestrange did not seem at all upset by the proposal, much to Abraxas’s surprise. “I would support you in that, as in all things, my lord,” he simpered. Abraxas was disgusted; Armand smirked.

“The compensation that I have in mind is for you to ascend to being my loyal advisor,” Malfoy said. “As for Lord Black… frankly, he has been trying for a while to thwart me. I have only now realized it. He balked at granting Caractacus Burke permission to wed the blood-traitor Lady Riddle. I am sure that it has to do with the fact that he is of native blood. I will not punish him, but he will not be granted compensation.” Smugly Malfoy drained his goblet. “I do not know how I had failed to notice it until recently. It’s as if there has been a fog about my mind that suddenly lifted. I wonder if he was cursing me… or perhaps one of the elves.”

Lestrange’s eyes were glittering, and he was hanging on every word. His sharp gaze darted from father to son. Abraxas suddenly felt _very_ uneasy. _Lestrange cannot be trusted,_ he realized in a flash.

This plan to dissolve the Wizards’ Council could not stand, though. If Lestrange—damn him!—really did support Father “in all things,” then he would support him after a change of heart. If not, then… Abraxas would have to dirty his hands. It was unpleasant, but sometimes unpleasant things were necessary. Lestrange did come from a family that was short-lived in the male line. He himself was approaching the age at which his father had begun to decline. There were things that could be done.

When he and Lestrange finished their goblets of wine, Lestrange rose to leave and bowed to Lord Malfoy and Abraxas. He passed through the doors. Abraxas did not act until he could no longer see Lestrange’s long shadow.

 _“Obliviate,”_ he whispered, pointing his wand at his father’s back.

The silhouette of Lestrange suddenly reemerged from the shadows, outlined by the candlelight of the stone hall. He leered at Abraxas, whose blood ran cold at the sight.

“I thought so,” Lestrange said, smugness and anticipation suffusing his voice, somehow turning the three syllables into the toll of a bell the morning of an execution.


	26. Winter Is Dark and Full of Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for all the thoughts on the previous chapter regarding the direction of the story. No one really had anything to say about specific developments in the intricate main plot, and no one said that the darkness of the main plot was the off-putting aspect. I really, truly thought that the decline was due to this, so I’m surprised! But I’m just going to keep on with what I am doing in that regard.
> 
> On the other hand, there’s a relatively consistent theme in many of your comments (on both fanfic sites this is posted on) that the Tom/Hermione parts are downright unpleasant to read now. I’ve been pondering that. This separation was planned from the beginning, and by definition it can’t be nice reading, but if it really is at the point of turning readers off, then I may try to limit their interactions and hostile inner monologues about each other until they’re back together. The main reason I’ve had these fights between them is to show that they still think about each other _a lot_ —that they matter to each other. But would it be preferable that they do their own things for now, basically ignoring each other, rather than clashing or feuding when they come in contact? Again, a plot retool is not up for consideration; the activities I mean for them to do individually will still take place. What might shift is how they interact for this phase.
> 
> And now… heh. This is an unfortunate chapter to post the above for, because this is far and away the darkest one of the entire story so far, and it is virtually all plot and little Tom/Herm interaction. Sorry, guys. They _will_ get back together; I promise that.
> 
>  **Warnings: Character death and reference to off-screen rape** involving a supporting character.

Abraxas pointed his wand straight at Lestrange’s face. His hand trembled for a moment as he tried quickly to think of what to say. Feigning ignorance would only get Lestrange to tell Father what had just happened—and what, apparently, Lestrange had deduced had been happening for a while. In a flash, he realized that the thing to do was to send Father unconscious and take care of Lestrange—but the moment of hesitation had cost him the chance.

Lestrange strode forward into the candlelight, his face angular and hideous in the flickers. He swished his wand through the air, disarming Abraxas. Abraxas scrambled for his wand, but Lestrange cast a spell to bind him.

“What is the meaning of this, Lestrange?” Armand said, his eyebrows narrowing. He drew his wand and pointed it at the younger wizard.

Lestrange stood unafraid. “My lord, your son has been performing Memory Charms on you and doing I know not what else,” he sneered. “Very likely poisoning you.”

“That’s a lie!” Abraxas finally gasped.

“It is not. I caught you in the act, _traitor.”_

“I have never poisoned Father—unless you mean the accursed potion he insists upon taking.”

“Wait,” Armand said, glaring at Abraxas. “You swore to me that you would not reveal the potion to anyone else. It was an Unbreakable Vow.”

“I have not said what potion it is, Father,” Abraxas sneered. “As you will observe, I am still alive.”

“He doesn’t need to say what potion it is,” snarled Lestrange. He pointed his wand at Abraxas’s face. “My lord, he has defied your will on numerous occasions, I believe, when you desired to punish the blood-traitors and rebels among our people more harshly than this coward wished. He also wanted to defy your will to disband the Wizards’ Council just now. Have you not noticed changes in your memory of late, my lord? Especially over the past two years, since the Mudblood and blood-traitor Lady Riddle came before us?”

Armand considered this thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I have.” He shot a suspicious look at Abraxas. “I seem to remember wanting to punish the half-blood for wearing those foul barbaric knots on his robes in defiance of my order… and declaring the entire family rebels for their offense against the Lestranges.”

Rodolphus Lestrange gaped. “And he erased that from your memory?”

“I think he must have,” Armand agreed.

Abraxas spoke up. “I certainly did, because it was a terrible idea! It was an insult to your family, Rodolphus. I do not deny that. But she is not sworn to you, so it was not unlawful. She did not even require a reason, though she did have one.”

“Are you defending her?” Armand exploded. Some of his wine made a reappearance.

“It is the law—”

 _“We_ are the law! I am the law!” Armand rose and pointed a finger at his son. “Black was with you for that meeting. The two of you have been conspiring against me! Lestrange is correct!”

“Arcturus has done nothing to you! He has never raised his wand against you,” Abraxas exclaimed at once. He realized that his own life was probably forfeit, but Black could not die too. There would be no other voice of reason on the Wizards’ Council.

“And you admitted that you have,” Armand said darkly.

Abraxas swallowed. “It was for your own good, Father. You have not been yourself lately. Some of your ideas would lead to war amongst our people, I am afraid. I have attempted to find out what is happening, but I cannot.”

“How dare you question your father’s sanity,” Lestrange growled. “You only say that because you want to allow rebellion to breed and he does not.”

“To the contrary, I want to _prevent_ rebellion. He wanted to expel the Mudblood and half-blood from Hogwarts. They would only take cover behind the walls of that castle if that happened. Can you not see that?” he exclaimed. He turned to Lestrange. “Besides, I remember that _you_ also talked Father out of stripping Dumbledore of his title for accepting the Longbottoms’ oath.”

“I merely talked him out of it,” Lestrange said. “I did not _curse_ him. You think that there should be no consequences for that village or the school.”

“They have done nothing illegal.”

“It is an act of provocation!” exclaimed Armand. “I will not strip the High Master of his title, but I _shall_ void the oath. He may not accept oaths from others. That is sensible, is it not? Why have I not thought of this before… or have I?” he realized, his voice dark as he glared at Abraxas.

“You probably have, my lord,” simpered Lestrange.

“A wizard has raised his wand against me,” Armand said. His face was cold and dark. His robes were white—a curious choice, Abraxas reflected wildly—but in the candlelight, he looked very much like an evil spirit. “This cannot go unpunished.”

Lestrange broke into a grin. Abraxas’s blood ran cold, even though he had thought he had accepted his own death. “Father—no! I am your son, your ally! Lestrange does not have your interests at heart—”

“Why should he believe anything a _traitor_ claims about his interests? _Who_ damaged his mind? Not I.”

“I didn’t either! It was already happening. You have not been yourself, Father!” he gasped. “I have tried to help you. I wish I knew what was happening to you. It is not the _potion.”_

“If you think he was failing, then why did you not give him more of his potion?”

“Very true,” Armand agreed gravely. “You believed I was declining, but you raised your wand against me. I cannot allow treason to exist, even in my own family. You looked to your own advantage instead of that of your lord. Lestrange is not even related closely to me, but he has been more loyal by far.”

Lestrange smirked.

“Lestrange is a hypocrite!” Abraxas exclaimed. He could not move his arms, but he cast the most malevolent glare he could manage at the younger man. “He thought that a commoner like Burke was the only wizard fit to marry Lady Riddle, because she had had relations with a Muggle—but do you know what _he_ does?”

“You fool,” Lestrange said disdainfully. “Everyone knows that because women are entered and claimed, they are defiled in the act. Men—wizards—are not.”

“Enough of this vulgarity,” Armand said. He turned to Lestrange. “My loyal liege man, you know what you must do.” He turned aside.

Hope left Abraxas in that moment, but he was not going to die pleading for mercy from the likes of Rodolphus Lestrange. “If he orders you to wait on him, you will get what you deserve,” he said spitefully. “I believe from personal experience that a curse also falls on one who slaughters a unicorn, not just one who, like Father, drinks its blood.”

Rodolphus swished his wand through the air at once, but he was too late. As soon as the words left Abraxas’s mouth, he collapsed to the ground, felled by the breach of his own Unbreakable Vow. He was dead before Lestrange’s throat-slitting curse struck him.

Lestrange swore violently. In his rage, he kicked the corpse on the floor. “Bastard!” he spat.

“Do not speak thus of him,” Armand said in warning. “That, at least, he was not.”

Lestrange instantly became penitent. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I spoke in anger.”

Armand sighed. “It is a pity, in a way… but perhaps Lucius will be more loyal to the family. He already has a manor, after all. I believe that Abraxas must have coveted what is mine.”

“I agree, my lord.”

“He attributed his own demise to a curse, but here I stand,” Armand said. He gazed at Lestrange. “Do not fear his dying words. I believe it is merely a superstition.”

Lestrange swallowed. “Then, my lord, you do expect me to….”

“Oh, not you. You have a household of your own. I think… Carrow. Yes. Carrow is your vassal. Send him to me after you return to your castle tonight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As much as I hate displaying the perfidy of those in my own family, it must be known that I tolerate no treason even from my own son. This must look like an execution. See to it that the body bears that appearance, Lestrange. After that, we will discuss new, proper laws.” In a swish of white robes, he left the chamber, leaving Lestrange to mutilate the body.

* * *

_Canis Manor on the Thames._

Regulus Black accepted the bundle of papers from Ted Tonks, his steward. He untied the string binding the stack together and cast a spell to banish the bulk of the papers, which he knew had been created by a magic spell. This left a single magic-protected document. He read it carefully, his forehead furrowing in concern.

“Thank you, Tonks. You may take your leave. Kreacher!”

In the next instant, the wizened house-elf appeared. “Master?” he croaked.

“I have word from our source that Lestrange has persuaded Lord Malfoy to execute his own son. Malfoy is also dissolving the Wizards’ Council. Go at once to Grandfather’s manor and tell him about this. Advise him to establish strong magical defenses on his fief, and especially on his castle. My parents live there too! They have no time to spare, if Malfoy and Lestrange mean to attack my family.”

“Yes, Master.” The elf’s face was drawn in alarm as he obeyed his master’s command.

Regulus scowled to himself as he considered his next decision. He really did not want to write this letter… but his brother did live in a village that was ruled by Lucius Malfoy. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

* * *

_The Potter Cottage, Godric’s Hollow._

James Potter glowered at the letter that Sirius had just passed to him. “What is _his_ motive?” he growled in suspicion.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sirius carped. “I haven’t trusted him ever since he sent that scathing reply to me a couple of years ago when I suggested that Moony and I strike fear into Malfoy.”

“In fairness to him, that _was_ a terrible idea,” James muttered under his breath. “But he has still chosen to remain in good standing with your parents and grandfather.”

“Exactly,” Sirius agreed. “I am pretty sure that he also writes to Snivellus. About _this_ letter, I would think that he was baiting us to write back something that would look treasonous, which he could then pass on to the Malfoys… but….”

“But he is also worried about your parents and grandfather,” James finished.

Lily Potter stepped up, giving both wizards exasperated looks. “It does not seem that complicated to me. Lord Regulus is warning you because he sincerely does not want you to come to harm despite your disagreements.”

The wizards blinked, as if that had not occurred to them. James opened his mouth as if to argue, but he shut it at once. Sirius sighed and shook his head rapidly, in a rather canine manner, but not to contradict her. “I suppose that may be,” Sirius admitted grudgingly.

“It is not our responsibility to protect _him,_ though,” said James. “I think we should write to the Weasleys, in fact. One of their sons has been knighted recently, by the king himself, and another is supposed to return from the Continent soon with the goblins. Armand Malfoy has only weakened himself by placing his faith in Lestrange. It will be easier for us now.”

Lily scowled. “I do not like this. There must be a better way.”

“Oh, it will be fine, my dear,” James said, getting up and giving her a peck on the cheek. She barely moved, though he did not notice. “We can rule ourselves as we see fit.”

“You had _better.”_

* * *

_Castle Draconis (formerly Castle Leo), Godric’s Hollow._

The scene on the tapestry behind Lord Lucius Malfoy moved. This part of the castle, the Great Hall, was outfitted with heavy textiles that told many proud stories, including the story of the Malfoy family and the conquest of this land. On this particular tapestry, a snake slithered around the neck of a lion, choking it.

Lucius frowned as he read the letter. His lady wife Narcissa sat next to him, reading the same document on the table before them.

At last they finished. Lucius heaved a sigh and met Narcissa’s eyes with his own. “I will not believe that my father was a traitor to the family. This is Lestrange’s doing. How will we tell Draco about this?”

“I do not know. Your grandfather… and Lestrange.”

“Lestrange,” Lucius said, distaste in his words. “Between us, my dear, I would like to remove him. He is a bad lord, and he should have known better than to accept the oaths of the Carrows. It has caused nothing but trouble. My father is dead because of this, his name tainted, and that upstart is trying to supplant him. To supplant _us.”_

“And the way he treats my sister is atrocious,” Narcissa said tightly.

Lucius did not comment on this; he sincerely disliked Bellatrix, and the dislike was mutual, but it would not do to say it right now.

“If the Carrows had presumed to offer themselves to _me,_ I would have given them to Umbridge,” Lucius continued.

Narcissa smirked at that image, but it did not last for long. “We must tell Draco somehow,” she said, “and we must make sure to warn him, subtly, to be wary of Lestrange. It will be difficult, since he is engaged to Lady Adelaide.”

“And that is the key to understanding Lestrange’s motive, I think.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He has no sons of his own— _legitimate, pureblood_ ones, at least. He has already had your honored father killed, Lucius—and I fear that he will target my family next.” She looked down, worried. “I will write to them. But we should also consider ourselves potential targets of his—prime targets, in fact. If your grandfather is ‘slipping,’ and we are out of Lestrange’s way like your poor father now is, then he is the obvious regent after his daughter is married to Draco.”

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Merope and Severus exchanged worried glances. “That vile old man executed his own son,” she said, her voice awed at the horror of it. It was the sort of thing she would have expected of her own late, unlamented family.

“And disbanded the Wizards’ Council altogether,” Severus said grimly. He had not expected this. His sources had been telling him that Lord Malfoy was the one who seemed most likely to be killed at the hands of the rest of the Council. That outcome would have calmed the political situation just a bit. The ugly plot to assassinate Sir Thomas Riddle and force Merope to marry Caractacus Burke would still be lurking in the background, but Arcturus Black and Abraxas Malfoy were comparatively reasonable wizards who played by the rules that he and Lady Merope understood and could navigate. This was a setback.

“I fear for Tom,” she confessed. “He is already living in a state of simmering fury about the Malfoys and the Norman occupation. He has not told me, but it is obvious every time I see him. I worry that he will do something that gets him—and poor Hermione—in serious trouble, and we will have to shelter both of them in this castle before they finish their magical education.”

Severus considered telling her about the memories he had encountered in Hermione’s mind when he had taught her Occlumency, but he decided against it. If he told her that the young couple were seriously at odds, it would be outside her power to change that, and it would only worry her more.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

High Master Albus Dumbledore stood aside helplessly as Scabior, a vassal of Rodolphus Lestrange, tacked up proclamation after proclamation on the walls of the school. Numerous pupils had gathered, mostly to gape in horror, but not all. Tom was standing by, in the shadows, surrounded by his friends, and his face was paling in rage. Adelaide Lestrange was admiring the wizard every time he reached up the walls to attach a parchment and turning to smirk at her horrified classmates after one went up.

 

_AN ACT TO PROHIBIT BARBARIC SPEECH AMONG PEOPLE OF MAGIC_

_It is the sense of His High Lordship Armand Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire, Lord of Witches and Wizards, that the tongue of Gaelic is unpleasant in sound, dangerous as a language of magical spells, and encourages the spirit of rebellion, drunkenness, and barbarism when spoken. It is proclaimed by His High Lordship that the speaking of this uncouth tongue is hereby prohibited in England, Scotland, Wales, and any domain henceforth under the authority of the High Lord, and shall be considered an act of petty treason._

_AN ACT TO PROHIBIT HEATHEN PRACTICES AMONG PEOPLE OF MAGIC_

_It is the sense of His High Lordship that the observance of chief days of traditionally heathen celebration is contrary to a well-ordered magical society and encourages rebellion, drunkenness, and barbarism. It is proclaimed by His High Lordship that the observance of Samhain, Yule, Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lughnasadh, or Mabon is hereby prohibited in England, Scotland, Wales, and any domain henceforth under the authority of the High Lord. Celebration of any of these days shall be considered an act of high treason._

 

“That’s that, then,” Wilkes muttered under his breath, so that Scabior could not hear him. “We are officially outlaws.”

Tom moved his hand to touch the clasp of his robe, but thought better of it. “For now. This will not endure. In the long term, it only helps our cause. This is the heritage of our people. They may have forgotten that, but they will remember now—and we will be there to lead them. _I_ will lead them.”

Somewhat removed from Tom, Hermione was reading the proclamations with shock and disappointment. This meant that the school would not hold the Beltane ritual this year. It meant that she would not have the opportunity to do it, even though Tom had.

 _Unless I convince the Friends of the Founders to defy Malfoy and do it ourselves,_ she thought wildly. _But it’s such a risk, and Malfoy just executed his own son. What kind of person does that unless there is very good reason? Tom must be right about him; he probably does drink unicorn blood. They are loathsome—Malfoy, Lestrange, and all their vassals—and I want them to fall._ She clenched her wand in her hand angrily. Her friends would surely make that happen, and she would be part of it.

Scabior put up another proclamation.

 

_ACTS CONCERNING MUDBLOODS_

_It is the sense of His High Lordship Armand Malfoy that Mudbloods are a threat to the continued existence of a magical population. To limit the danger, the following are hereby proclaimed:_

  1. _No additional Mudbloods may be admitted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after the date of this Proclamation, irrespective of betrothal status. Defiance of this rule by the lords and ladies of the school shall be considered an act of high treason._
  2. _Mudbloods who are related to an acknowledged magical family by marriage are henceforth prohibited from bearing wands, cauldrons, enchanted magical artifacts, or other items of magic in public places. Defiance of this rule shall be considered an act of petty treason._
  3. _Mudblood women who are married to wizards may not leave their hair unbound in the manner of married witches with blood status. They must cover their hair and take a veil, as is the Muggle custom. Defiance of this rule shall be considered an infraction to be punished with flogging and snapping of the offender’s wand._
  4. _Any association with Mudbloods who have no current or contracted future marital connection to a wizarding family is henceforth prohibited. Defiance of this rule shall be considered an infraction to be punished with a fine set by and paid to one’s lord, and after three such infractions, imprisonment._



 

Hermione’s rage intensified. So Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange imagined that _she_ would tolerate being treated as a Muggle woman? She stole a glance at Tom, who was glaring at the parchments on the wall with loathing— _all_ of them. Good. They might be at odds, but at least he cared about this as well as the despicable “proclamations” that affected only himself.

Holding her head high, making sure that her bushy hair bounced with every step, she stalked out of the hallway past Adelaide Lestrange’s smirking face. She heard footsteps and smiled as she saw that Luna, Harry, and Neville were approaching.

“I think we should have a meeting tonight to practice magic,” Harry muttered.

“I completely agree.” She glanced back, making sure that Adelaide Lestrange and her allies were not in earshot. “Should we consider making a Beltane fire of our own?”

Harry considered it. “I don’t know how… but maybe we should. We’ll have to get the books about it before they are destroyed, though.”

“I don’t believe that Dumbledore would allow books to be destroyed,” Hermione said confidently. “He could just hide them in the Come-and-Go Room, could he not?”

Luna, Harry, and Neville stopped momentarily and exchanged grins.

* * *

Draco Malfoy brooded alone. His loyal trio of Crabbe, Goyle, and William Rosier were nowhere in sight, which was exactly as he wanted it. At the moment, he was not sure whom he should trust, so it was safest to keep his own counsel.

His grandfather was dead. His Grandfather Malfoy was _dead—_ and his great-grandfather had done the deed! It was horrible. Draco felt that this was just like the kinds of primitive practices that he had always been told were being stamped out by people like his family—these weregilds, blood feuds, and the like. Their family had come to this country to bring civilization to the wizards and witches, who had conducted themselves in a state barely removed from barbarism—or so he had always been taught.

Draco was beginning to question many things.

He was related either to a traitor or to a kinslayer, and he suspected it was the latter. If his grandfather had been a traitor, if he had conspired to kill the high lord, then it was logical to execute him. However, during the summer, Draco had overheard his parents talking quietly between themselves about how they were worried about Great-Grandfather Armand’s state of mind, based on what Grandfather Malfoy had written to Father. They had also muttered about Lestrange. Apparently the man made a practice of betraying his wife, Draco’s aunt by blood, for Muggle villagers. That was another thing they whispered about, and it was disgusting.

Draco hoped that his parents would eventually break faith with Lestrange and release him from his betrothal to Adelaide. He would not have minded allying with her against _Riddle,_ his chief rival in Slytherin House and a great thorn in his side, but he did not want to marry her. For one, it was unpleasant to think of being married to his first cousin. He had known her as family too well, for too long, to want to sleep with her—ever. For another, she was horribly disagreeable to be around. She drank, and she picked fights. Draco did not care that she hated Riddle and Riddle’s Mudblood, but he really did not see the point anymore in harassing them. What did he care if a half-blood married a Mudblood? Impure _should_ mate with impure. He was also wary enough of their magical skill that he saw no point in provoking them as often as Adelaide liked to. It never ended well for her when she did; whichever of them she was bothering always cursed her, but she never seemed to learn. Perhaps that was why Riddle, Granger, and even Draco himself had surpassed her in their studies….

But the most important factor to Draco was that he had someone else that he _did_ want to marry, and there was no valid reason why he should not. Astoria Greengrass was a pureblood witch from a noble family. Her sister was a bitch, and seemed to be allied with Riddle—no surprise there, since she was betrothed to Flint, one of the Slytherin noble lordlings who inexplicably shadowed that half-blood—but one could not pick one’s family. Draco of all people knew _that._ If he could, he would have chosen his late grandfather and cast off his kinslaying great-grandfather.

The only possible explanation Draco could think of for why his family—or the Lestranges, who seemed _very_ much inclined to try to displace his family—might consider Astoria an unsuitable match was that she was not of Norman ancestry. But what difference did that make? He himself had never known anything but England and Scotland. His mother had been a Black, an English family. Marrying into the English was good enough for Father; why was it not good enough for him? Astoria was noble, and she was pureblood, and whenever he could meet with her secretly away from Adelaide and Daphne, he would talk and flirt with her. It had never progressed beyond flirting; Draco was not going to do anything that might risk her prospects… but he really, really wanted her “prospects” to no longer be an issue for her.

 _Grandfather Malfoy would have supported me,_ he thought unhappily. _If he had survived, he would have understood. My family would not have forced me to stay betrothed to a Lestrange. Lord Lestrange may think he was loyal to my great-grandfather, but he betrayed my grandfather in the vilest of ways, and I will not forget that. I promise that, Grandfather._

* * *

Shortly after the loathsome Malfoy proclamations went up, the school dismissed for… well, for _Christmas_ break, Tom thought sourly as he prepared to Disapparate to his mother’s castle. Not Christmas _and_ Yule anymore. Tom rather hoped that his mother would observe the holiday anyway. If she did not, then he would.

Hermione was nearby, standing with her own friends, Crookshanks meowing in a magically sealed crate. Tom knew how to Apparate now; he had learned over the fall, so there was no need for Merope to send house-elves anymore. She wished that holding hands with Tom meant more than it currently did, but since the contact was merely perfunctory now, she looked forward to learning to Apparate on her own… that was something taught in a mastery class…. Perhaps next year, then. Tom was in his fourth year now, after all.

He had barely spoken to her after Malfoy had issued his hideous orders. That hurt. The orders targeted both of them, and they should be united in solidarity against such evil. Tom should not accept his future wife having to present herself as a Muggle in public, concealing her hair, veiling her head, and carrying no magical implements. But after that slimy Lestrange vassal, Scabber or whatever his name was, had put up the documents, Tom had huddled and conspired only with his own friends, as usual. In fact, he was doing just that right now.

She caught his eye, and he scowled but broke away from his group. As he walked over to where she stood, she gave Luna a gentle smile. “See you next year,” she said. “Do let me know what you learn from your father about the Friends.”

“I certainly will,” Luna agreed. “And remember what I said a while ago: If he ignores you, write to me or Ginny.”

“Ginny?” Hermione repeated, smiling. She had not known that Ginevra Weasley went by that nickname as well as her given name. Perhaps she was more formal with someone of noble birth… but that bothered Hermione in some indescribable way. Her friends should not feel that there were barriers between them. _There are too many barriers among our people already,_ she thought unhappily.

Tom reached Hermione and wordlessly held out his hand for her. She took a deep breath and took it. His palm was icy in the wintry air. He turned away and Disapparated in a whirl.

They reappeared in the achingly familiar courtyard of Parselhall. Tom pulled his hand away and offered Hermione his arm to escort her into the castle, wordlessly, his air as chilly as the air surrounding them. Stifling a lump in her throat, she took his arm and walked in, attempting to hold her head high.

Lady Merope greeted them somberly, with Lord Severus Snape standing nearby. “Good cheer to both of you,” she said, the tone of her voice not matching her words. “The elves will see to your belongings.”

“Mother,” Tom said, releasing Hermione’s arm without a second look at her and striding forward to meet his mother. “I suppose you must have heard about Armand Malfoy’s disgusting proclamations.”

Merope’s gaze darkened, as did Snape’s. “I have,” she said in hard tones. “I have already made accommodations for the holiday.”

Tom’s face lit up. “What do you mean?”

“It will be a small, private celebration,” she admitted. “The villagers won’t be present. I have not told them about Malfoy’s laws in the first place, but I also considered swearing all of them to secrecy, or simply prohibiting them from writing to anyone outside the fief. I do not think there are any who have relatives on the outside in the first place… but I think it is best simply to observe the holiday privately, with only witches and wizards present.”

Tom frowned. “We have magic. It should not be hard to swear Muggles to secrecy, even a full village of them. We should not cede any ground to Malfoy, whether he knows about it or not.”

Merope smiled indulgently. “If you think that, Tom, then _you_ are certainly welcome to make all of them take individual oaths not to speak of the ceremony.”

Tom scowled but did not contest the point.

“And Hermione,” Merope said, turning to her, “I wanted you to know that you may wear your hair as any witch does while you are behind the walls of _this_ castle… and carry any magical object that you see fit. In this castle, we respect and honor witches.”

Hermione knew that Merope meant well, and that she could not possibly know that Tom had used that exact sort of argument to defend his own inexcusable conduct to her, but it still pained her to hear it. In the interest of courtesy, she managed a smile in spite of herself, purposely avoiding looking at the smirk that she knew must grace Tom’s face.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Adelaide Lestrange picked at her food. Her family was enjoying one of their many winter feasts— _not_ Yule, definitely not, despite that it was the winter solstice; they were simply feasting, as nobles did as they saw fit—but Adelaide had little appetite right now.

Draco was not even _here._ He and his parents were at their own castle in Godric’s Hollow, supposedly because they wanted to have a “private dinner,” but Adelaide—in common with her father—wondered if it might be more. Mother was with them, apparently invited by her sister. She seemed largely sympathetic to Aunt Narcissa, though she had never liked Uncle Lucius. Adelaide worried that Draco’s ill-treatment of her—and she had to admit that it _was_ ill-treatment—was no longer a secret to her family, and that they were angry about it. If that were the case, Father would blame _her._ Mother might not, but Father would. He had blamed her when the filthy half-blood Riddle had sent that memory to Lord Berengar in Aquitaine two years ago. He _always_ blamed her.

 _Father blames me because I am not a wizard,_ she thought sourly. _He wanted a son, and he blames me because I am not one—but he apparently never tried to have another child with Mother, as if that is my fault._

And to make matters worse, Draco was disloyal to her. Adelaide was _sure_ that he was seeing that barbarian slut Astoria Greengrass—what a ridiculous name!—but she had not been able to catch them together to prove it. It was just awful, though.

All of Adelaide’s problems had come about from the admission of that Mudblood to Hogwarts, she thought, stabbing a chunk of meat crudely with a knife. If that had not happened, it would not even have mattered that the half-blood Riddle was raised to the nobility. No one would have contracted an alliance with him. He would have gone through school as he had during their first year, the target of well-deserved taunts. But with a witch _of his very own_ at his side, he had the opportunity to make _her_ problems his own, and as a Mudblood, she certainly had problems. It was just unfair that such people could harm their betters. She was certain that the reason Draco disliked her was that foul lie they had spread about her and that group of wizards in the Hogsmeade tavern. Granted, she could not prove that they had ever spread that rumor specifically, but they must have.

Here, now, Father was barely even paying attention. He was ensconced with the Carrows, explaining something to them that made Amycus Carrow blanch. Good. They used to serve the Gaunt family; they deserved discomfort. And Adelaide was quite certain that Father had been drinking. What hypocrites they all were to chastise _her_ for drinking. Mother understood, at least. It was a pity that she was not here. Defiantly Adelaide summoned the nearest bottle of wine and refilled her goblet.

“That’s a good vintage,” said a male voice next to Adelaide. She turned sharply to face Scabior. A grin appeared on her face.

“Yes,” she said, taking a bold sip. She set the goblet down on the tabletop. “It is.”

“I always approve of a witch who appreciates good wine,” drawled the wizard.

Adelaide smirked. “That is good to hear. Many don’t.”

“They are… mistaken.” He raised his own goblet and clinked it with hers. They exchanged sips.

Adelaide was acutely aware of the way that his gaze never left her—specifically, never left an area of her body that was definitely _not_ her face—but at the moment, she did not much care. This was harmless. A vassal of her father certainly would know not to take risks with the lord’s daughter.

“When I put up those posters for Lord Malfoy, I noticed something,” Scabior continued, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. “A pair of enemies of yours were so outraged, I thought they might magically combust on the spot.”

Adelaide laughed. “Riddle and Granger! Yes, I noticed too. It was a beautiful sight. I think it’s a very good thing that Lord Malfoy ordered Granger to control that ugly hair of hers.”

 _“Your_ hair is very lovely, though.”

She froze in alarm. That, somehow, did not seem appropriate from this wizard, in this situation.

He noticed and quickly recovered. “You know that before our forebears came, the natives left their hair uncombed and wore crude garments of animal skins,” Scabior lied. “Even the witches and wizards.”

Adelaide laughed again. “I doubt that, but I’m sure they were very uncivilized.”

The banter continued, and Adelaide drank until she felt that she could barely stand up. She got to her feet and wobbled at once. Scabior instantly took her arm to steady her. At the high table, Lord Lestrange glanced up blearily, his own gaze affected by heavy drink.

“My lord, with your permission, I will escort her safely,” Scabior said. Lestrange nodded, then returned to his cups.

When the wizard first took Adelaide’s arm, the gesture was everything she had come to expect as a young lady from vassals. He walked through the dining hall to the great doors, opened them with a flick of his wand, and closed them behind them.

Adelaide’s bedchamber was on the next level of the castle in a wing reserved for private use of the family. He began to walk her down the corridor in the general direction of this wing, but then he turned a corner unexpectedly. The hall was deserted; a lone candle stood in a recess.

“Where are you going?” she exclaimed.

He pushed open a door to what she realized must be his own quarters in the castle. Adelaide tried to wrench free. “This is not appropriate,” she protested.

He pulled her through the doors and closed them with a sound that seemed to ring through the entire castle. “From what I hear, my lady, you like the inappropriate. A lady getting drunk at the table? And I heard about why your first betrothal ended.”

“That was a lie!”

“When was the last time that a wizard actually admired you?” Scabior said, leering. “It has been a while, has it not? Well, _I_ admire you.”

“No,” she protested, but he did not heed her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more thing about this one, before anyone yells at me. I am not trying to imply that Adelaide deserved to be victimized because she’s a horrible person. I don’t believe that. And there will be more to come of this, don’t worry.


	27. No Good Deed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you so much! Regarding Tom and Hermione, I don't want to post outright spoilers, but I will say this: I will not bait-and-switch readers on the primary ship. That includes unmentioned/untagged "surprise" ships. I have outlined quite a few chapters, and I know when they will get back together. I don't want to say when, but it will occur, and it won't be at the end of the story.
> 
>  **Warning:** This chapter is probably going to be disturbing for several reasons. I don't know exactly what I should say I am warning for, other than more period-typical misogyny, but that's not all that will likely be disturbing.

Hermione clutched her book as she read in the Riddle library. She was trying to ignore the fact that across the room, Tom sat in a chair, a broad smile on his handsome face that was as disturbing to her as it was happy. Whatever he was reading, whatever he had found in the book, it had made him very pleased, but it did not look benign. She was intensely curious, but the book was flat on his lap.

The library doors were open. Hermione heard footsteps approaching, two pairs of them. Tom’s gaze darted up from his book toward the doors in time with Hermione’s. They listened intently as Severus and Merope talked in elevated voices outside.

“This is vindictive, plain and simple,” Severus growled. “Malfoy and Lestrange have singled you out. It is punitive, slapped on this fief because we are their political enemies.”

“I know that!” Merope exclaimed. “The question is, what can we do about it? Malfoy is going to send his ‘assessors’ to the grounds this summer, when everything is green and healthy, to get the best possible value estimate. This tax raise is outrageous, Severus. But what do you think we can do?”

Tom’s dark eyebrows narrowed in anger at what he had just overheard.

“The objective,” Severus said thoughtfully, “seems to be to give Malfoy a pretext to seize the castle as collateral. That, or compel you to impoverish the entire village yourself to pay the bill—but that would only work for this year’s bill, of course. In fact,” he thought, “I think they expect you to do just that. It’s what they would do—take every last coin from their villages—but needless to say, it would leave you vulnerable.”

“They would have to return to being field servants again, all of them, even the ones who have been practicing skilled trades for two and a half years,” she snarled. “I’m not going to do that—and as you rightly say, that would only generate enough money for this year. You’re right; the ultimate plan is to seize the castle for payment.”

There was a lull, in which Hermione stole another glance at Tom. He was livid.

“They are in the library,” Severus said in a low voice.

Merope paused. “Very well. They have already heard this much. Let’s bring them into the discussion.”

Hermione and Tom rose from their seats as Merope and Severus entered the library. “I’m sorry,” Hermione said at once. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the doors were open—”

“It isn’t your fault,” Merope reassured her, closing the doors behind her and Severus. “And you and Tom should know what is going on, in any case.”

Severus scowled, but it seemed more reflexive than directed. “All right. Now, as we were discussing, what can we _do_ about this?” He turned to the young people. “I am sure you heard all of that. Armand Malfoy—or, I rather suspect, Rodolphus Lestrange, since he is the ‘Lord Advisor’—has slapped the lady baroness with a punitive tax, purportedly for ‘restitution to the High Wizarding Lord for years of… undervaluing the accounts.’” He winced, as if he knew something about that. Merope gave him a curious glance.

“Who would his ‘assessor’ be?” Tom asked. “Is it someone who could be easily fooled with magic?”

“It will probably be a vassal. I would not be surprised if he sent one of the Carrows, who know the fief _very_ well. What kind of magic could you mean? They are going to examine the entire village, the fields, the grove, and the castle grounds. What vast spell do you have in mind, _my lord?”_ His words were tinged with sarcasm.

Tom glowered. “The ancient Celts had a trove of earth and seasonal magic. There is an old ritual that they used to curse the fields and forests of their enemies—”

“Tom,” Merope said in a tone of warning, her eyes wide in shock. “I know of what you speak, and I cannot _believe_ you would suggest it.”

In spite of the fact that the spell sounded bad and that she did not really want to return to normal terms with Tom without a big apology from him, Hermione could not but seek more knowledge. “I don’t know anything about this ritual. What does it do? How does it work?”

Tom raised his eyebrows at her inquiringly. He paused for a fraction of a second, but _his_ inclination to discuss what he knew won out. “It blackens and blights a tract of land. They would use it in war. It can be reversed with another ritual—”

“Hermione, what my son is avoiding saying is that both rituals are fueled by human sacrifice,” Merope said, eyeing him darkly. “And not ‘just’ one victim for each, given the size of the area that it would have to affect. This is powerful magic.”

“I wasn’t suggesting killing our own villagers!” Tom exclaimed. “But there are plenty of vile Norman Muggles, like the Muggle king’s soldiers.”

Merope gaped at her son as if she had never quite seen him before. “Hold your tongue, Tom,” she snapped. “I forbid any further mention of this.” She breathed deeply. “If anyone has a _productive_ suggestion to evade this tax, please speak up.”

Hermione tried to clear her head of her own shock at the ideas that Tom was contemplating. “What about charms to _disguise_ the land? Not to _actually_ kill the plant life, but… to make it _look_ unhealthy.”

“A glamour charm?” Merope asked. She considered. “Yes, that might work.”

“The Carrows are not very skilled in magic,” Severus supplied.

Merope nodded. “So if one of them is the ‘assessor,’ it might trick them. It would require all of us to walk the grounds to set it up, but it might work.” She smiled grimly. “And if it doesn’t, we will have to ‘secure’ the assessor and prepare the castle for a magical siege.”

* * *

Hermione lay on her bed in the castle that evening, staring at the ceiling, Crookshanks curled up next to her side. She was not sure what to think of Tom’s grim suggestion earlier that day. On one hand, it was disturbing that he apparently considered sacrifice-fueled rituals an acceptable solution. But did he really? Tom had always had a tendency to show off what he knew, and perhaps it was just the eagerness of a magical scholar who focused on theory.

She acknowledged to herself that in any other circumstance, she probably would not have thought a “but” at all. The ritual would have been shocking, and that would have been that. _But for that brief moment, we had some of our old rapport back, even if it was so that he could talk about murderous ancient magic…._

She turned, upsetting Crookshanks’s rest. The cat stretched and jumped off the bed, to Hermione’s chagrin. She reached an arm toward the fluffy animal, trying to coax him back, but he leapt into the chair in the room instead. Sighing, Hermione lay back down. Tom still owed her an apology for his behavior. She could not let him think otherwise.

* * *

A few rooms away, Tom turned repeatedly on his bed, restless and unsettled. He supposed he should have held his peace, and when the time came, simply performed the ritual _himself._ Now, if he did that, his mother would instantly know what had happened. It was frustrating to acknowledge his own mistakes, but so it was. Tom really did not see anything wrong with capturing a few of the Muggle king’s soldiers and using their lives as fuel. There was a kind of poetic justice, in fact, since many of these particular Muggles supported this pretender because they agreed with him and his noble backers that his female cousin should not rule due to her gender. Tom did not want a Muggle queen any more than he wanted a Muggle king; _he_ wanted to rule, but somehow that reasoning made it worse. To use the lives of woman-hating Normans in a Celtic ritual to protect the property of an English witch seemed perfect to Tom… but it seemed that it was not to be.

He wondered about something else related to the discussion. Why would Malfoy and Lestrange try a scheme to seize the castle outright, when Tom knew very well that the typical practice was to try to force an obdurate opponent into a marriage to one of their allies. Obviously he did not want his mother to have to deal with that, but it was strange to him that their enemies were thinking of seizing the castle through an immense, punitive tax increase instead. _Mother is a widow,_ he thought. _Why would they not try that with her? Is there something I am not being told?_

The darkness gave him no answers, so he sighed to himself and tried to get to sleep.

* * *

The rest of the intermission passed uneventfully. Tom did not make any overtures to her to make amends for his past conduct, and after the unpleasant confrontation with his mother, he kept to himself most of the time. Hermione was glad when it was finally time to return to Hogwarts.

The first evening that they were back, she stayed in the Slytherin common room, Harry Potter sitting next to her but not inappropriately close, as she read. In another corner, Tom and his friends huddled. Hermione wondered for a moment where their adversaries might be.

She did not have to wonder long, at least for one of them. The door swung open, and Adelaide Lestrange stumbled in. Her gaze darted sharply and suspiciously from one side of the room to the other, taking in her enemies. She cast Hermione a glare of deep dislike, but what struck Hermione was that the girl’s face seemed to entirely lack the self-assured arrogance that had marked her for the past two and a half years. Instead, beneath the personal dislike for Hermione, she looked hunted and defeated.

She was also intoxicated on something, Hermione noted. Strong drink? That was most likely it….

“What are _you_ looking at?” Adelaide snapped.

Hermione realized that she had been staring and sneered back. “It’s hard not to look when someone stumbles into the common room drunk.”

Adelaide let out a hiss. “I am not _drunk,_ Mudblood.”

Hermione was about to snort in derision, but then she caught sight of the burns on Adelaide’s wand arm. They were in exactly the place one usually had them when a cauldron fire flickered up around the edges while one was stirring the contents. Had she made a potion that had caused this? And what potion? With a sigh, Hermione realized that she was not going to get an answer. She huffed and returned to her book. It was not _her_ problem, in any case.

The next morning, Hermione received news that positively elated her: She would be in the mastery classes for Potions, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes. Harry was also going to be in the mastery class for Potions. Tom was already in the mastery classes for all of his subjects, but even he had not been advanced to _three_ mastery classes all at once in the middle of _his_ third year. He had advanced in just one at this time a year ago, Charms and Curses. Hermione smiled smugly when Professor Slughorn gave her the news, ignoring Tom’s expression of intense jealousy.

* * *

Adelaide Lestrange’s odd behavior continued for several weeks. She was finally in some of the intermediate classes, which meant that she did share those subjects with Hermione still, giving Hermione more opportunity to observe her. She retained the clear undertone of simmering misery. What had happened to her over the winter holidays? Something must have.

About a month after they had returned to school, Hermione was returning from a late visit to the library when she passed by a room with the door open a crack. Inside, someone was sniffling and cursing—not magical spells, but swearwords. It was a witch’s voice, and the girl seemed miserable. Hermione drew her wand in case the person inside reacted badly, then pushed the door open.

Clouds of smoke and vile fumes assaulted her nostrils immediately. A potion had gone badly wrong. Hermione coughed, cast a spell to clear the smoke, and focused on the crying person. It was Adelaide. Hermione’s adversary sat hunched over a cauldron that was the source of the fumes, her face red and streaked with tears, her black hair damp and frizzy.

“What are you doing?” Hermione exclaimed. “What is that meant to be?”

The girl looked up with loathing. “Get out, and attend to your own business for once, Mudblood!”

Hermione ignored this and approached the cauldron. Something about the smell was familiar to her… the potion was ruined, of course, and these fumes were tinged with the smoke of burning, but there was something about the aroma that triggered a memory….

“I said _leave!”_

Hermione pointed her wand at Adelaide’s neck. “This was supposed to be a stronger version of the potion that prevents conception,” she realized. She gazed at Adelaide’s face and suddenly was sure she understood.

Adelaide glared back with unmitigated loathing. “Get out.”

“Are you with child?” Hermione said baldly. “Is that what you have been so upset about ever since we returned to school?”

The other girl did not answer. A tear trickled down her cheek.

Despite the history between them, despite the two and a half years of slurs and insults, despite the attack in the corridor in Hermione’s very first week at the school, compassion suddenly overwhelmed her. A memory flashed through her brain, a dream she had about a year ago in which Adelaide stared into space miserably and she felt sympathy for her enemy.

 _Divination is often rubbish,_ Hermione thought in that same flash, _but that dream was prophetic._

“Is it Malfoy’s?” she asked Adelaide gently.

Adelaide glared at her with contempt as another tear fell from her eye. “You fool. I would _marry_ Draco if it were.”

Hermione chastised herself for asking that. Of course it was obviously not. “Can you not marry the father, then?” she said.

Adelaide ignored this question, casting her face down. “That’s probably what he wanted,” she muttered almost under her breath. “Filthy bastard. That was probably his scheme.”

“Were you forced?” Hermione exclaimed in horror. She moved to the cauldron, took out her wand, and cleaned it. “Lestrange… _Adelaide._ You were, weren’t you?”

Adelaide did not reply, but the silence spoke volumes.

For a moment Hermione hesitated. Was it really a good idea to let her adversary know that she had this knowledge? But that instinct of self-defense was instantly overpowered by the sympathy that Hermione felt, especially if someone had raped Adelaide—evidently someone with a title, probably one of her father’s own vassals, if she thought he believed he could leverage this into a marriage to the lord’s daughter.

“I know how to make it,” Hermione said. “I know how to make that potion. If you have enough ingredients left over, I could do it.” She had never made this version of it, the far stronger version that terminated an existing pregnancy rather than preventing it, but the formula had the same procedure and ingredients, just in different proportions.

Adelaide appeared resistant for a moment about accepting Hermione’s offer, but then she sighed deeply, her breath shuddering as she did. She gave a small nod, not looking Hermione in the eye. She pointed at a parcel, which Hermione found contained the ingredients. A book with the formula rested next to the cauldron.

Hermione began to make the potion, consulting the book as a reference as she added the ingredients. Soon steam began to rise from the cauldron, still foul-smelling, but not because of combustion of the ingredients this time. Even the milder form of this potion smelled bad, and this was a far more intense one.

Finally it was ready and stinking. Hermione turned to her old adversary, who was staring at it with deadened eyes. “Will it make me unable to conceive in the future?” she asked, still not looking at Hermione, her voice toneless and miserable.

“It shouldn’t,” Hermione said. “It happened about a month ago, did it not? It won’t be traumatic to your body, I wouldn’t think.”

“Traumatic?” Adelaide repeated.

“After you take it, you should remove your undergarments and…” She gazed around the room to see what objects were in it. “Use that bucket.”

 _“Bucket?”_ Adelaide exclaimed, looking queasy.

“Well, what do you _think_ it does?” Hermione said, a bit annoyed. “Didn’t you read that part?”

Adelaide shuddered, almost seeming for a moment to resist, but then she took a deep breath. “It has to be done,” she said. She moved over the potion. “If you made a poison instead, you will regret it.”

Hermione glared. “I wouldn’t poison you. Don’t assume everyone is like your parents.”

“Don’t speak of my parents.” Adelaide filled a goblet with the potion, winced, closed her eyes, and downed it. She shuddered again as she swallowed it.

“You need to take more.”

“I _know.”_ Adelaide refilled the goblet, gulped it down, and gagged. But she did not regurgitate it; she shivered as she refilled the goblet for the third and final time. This time she sipped it, draining it slowly. When the third dose was finally gone, she trembled from head to toe.

“Look away… Granger.” She headed to the corner of the room where the bucket rested on the floor.

Hermione averted her eyes as Adelaide apparently removed her underclothes. She could not help but notice that she had not called her “Mudblood” this time….

“Do you need me to stay?” Hermione asked.

“No. I—” Whatever she was going to say was lost as she lurched in pain, clutching her lower abdomen. She barely managed to hitch her skirts up in time to position the bucket. Hermione averted her eyes from the three drops of blood left on the stone floor in her wake… but it meant that the potion was working as it should. Hermione regretted leaving even her enemy to something like this by herself, but if it was what Adelaide _wanted…._

Silently she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her as she did so that no one else would overhear.

* * *

In a couple of hours, Adelaide appeared in the Slytherin common room looking very sick but also relieved. She refused to meet Hermione’s eyes, which did not entirely surprise Hermione. She passed through the common room and into the girls’ dormitory corridor, evidently to go to bed at once.

The incident deeply disturbed Hermione as she thought about it that night. She wondered with a kind of morbid curiosity what had happened over the holidays. Had Adelaide been tipsy—or more—and that was how someone thought he could get a marriage out of raping the lord’s daughter? Hermione thought, again, about Tom’s past comments about the Malfoy and Lestrange faction’s disdain for witches. Perhaps he was right, she thought. They _had_ made that new law requiring married Muggle-born witches to present themselves according to the restrictive Muggle rules for women, and before that, they had changed existing wizarding law to give authority to husbands of ruling witches if they married in the future. Perhaps the rapist had very good reason to believe that Lord Lestrange would ignore his despicable act, and not even consider it rape, if Adelaide had been drinking….

Hermione thought of that dream of a year ago once again. She wondered, as she finally felt sleep creeping at the edges of her thoughts, if this event meant that Adelaide would rethink her own allegiances. Adelaide _did_ owe her now, with a magical debt. It was certainly not as powerful as a wizard’s debt incurred from one saving the life of another, but it was the same category. Perhaps this would mark the beginning of a new alliance that cut across all the boundaries among magical people that Hermione had rued recently.

* * *

_Two days later._

When Hermione sat down at the Slytherin table for the midday meal, she knew something was wrong. Everyone in the Malfoy-Lestrange group was looking at her and sniggering. Even Harry looked askance at her, and Tom was shooting glares of outrage in her direction.

She sighed and steeled herself, turning to Harry. “All right,” she said in a low voice. “What is this about?”

Harry winced, not really wanting to explain. He did not need to. Yvette Rosier, one of Lestrange’s friends, burst out gleefully.

“Who was it, Mudblood?”

Hermione gazed up. “Who was what? What are you talking about?” This was already starting to severely irritate her.

“Don’t act stupid,” the girl taunted. “You were caught making _that potion._ You know the one. Everyone does. Was it Potter?” She leered at him.

A horrible, and utterly infuriating, idea entered Hermione’s mind at this vague yet telling statement. _Would Adelaide really have—_ The mere thought of it, that Adelaide would have repaid Hermione’s favor with a stab in the back, sent a flood of toxic rage through her veins. She shot a glance at Adelaide, who was gazing at her plate, deliberately not making eye contact with anyone, a smug little smirk on her face. That confirmed it for Hermione.

“I was making it for someone else!” she exclaimed. She caught Tom’s eye and deliberately took down her Occlumency shield, inviting him to see the truth for himself. He gazed at her for a moment, and some of the rage on his face melted away—but only some. So be it, then. She would have it out with him—again—later, she resolved.

Rosier and the other girls merely laughed at Hermione’s words. “Who, then?” the girl trilled. “Who would be so desperate as to ask a _Mudblood_ to make a potion for her?”

“Your friend!” Hermione roared, her finger pointing directly at Adelaide Lestrange as if casting a malediction upon her. _“She_ had me do it!”

This only provoked an uproarious burst of disbelieving laughter. “What a pathetic lie!” Rosier chortled. She smirked at Hermione. “Own up to it, Mudblood.”

“It’s _true!”_

Her assertions were met only with more laughter. Hopelessly she gazed again at Tom, who was staring back at her in frustration. Her resolve hardened. Apparently, both Tom and Harry had, to varying degrees, entertained the false rumor as possibly true. She would have it out with _both_ of them—and then Lestrange herself, who would feel the brunt of her fury. She had not just defaulted on a wizarding debt, but had compounded it. She would pay. _Clearly being kind gets me nothing but a stab in the back,_ she thought, trying to blink away tears of fury as she ate.

* * *

Hermione herded Tom and Harry into an empty room that afternoon and locked the door. She gazed at each of them impatiently. “Well?” she said. “I was telling the truth. You both know it. Why did you ever think otherwise?”

“I thought perhaps it was—you and him,” Harry protested. “That you had… resolved your differences over the holidays—”

“How dare you speak of our private affairs, Potter?” Tom snarled.

 _“I_ will handle this, _Riddle,”_ Hermione retorted. She turned to Harry with a hard look. “Is that so?”

“Hermione, I know you! You have been my friend for two and a half years. I know you wouldn’t… and I also know that it would be really important to you to finish your schooling here… so it made a kind of sense. I didn’t believe it was necessarily true, but if it _were…_ I was sure that would have been what happened.”

She huffed, but at least Harry had not believed anything about her that was dishonorable. “You should not have believed or even half-believed anything my enemies said about me, but if that’s what you thought, I suppose I can forgive it.” She managed a thin smile, then turned to Tom in renewed fury. “And _you.”_ Her voice was low and dark.

He bristled at her tone, but she continued relentlessly. “You are a Legilimens. You must have looked into Harry’s eyes and seen that _he_ was innocent. I know you have been jealous of him before, groundlessly I might add, but since you were, I suppose you might have _thought_ you needed to know about him. But after you did, how could you have entertained such a vile idea about me?” Her voice broke. “At least Harry didn’t question my honor! Whereas my ‘betrothed’ would not even _defend_ me against a loathsome lie—”

“That’s not true,” he spat.

“He did curse Malfoy for saying it and called it a lie,” Harry said hurriedly. “It happened before you came to the table.”

Some of Hermione’s anger and sense of betrayal cooled, but only some of it. She eyed Tom. “You still glared at me. Why are you still angry?”

He breathed deeply. “Why did you help her?” he snapped. “Why did you help that Norm—that bitch? It was her problem if she couldn’t make the potion herself.”

“She had been raped,” Hermione said. “She thought that the wizard who did it would have tried to force her to marry him. It was disgusting. Tom, if you really would allow that to happen to a witch, even a witch that you hate, when you had the power to stop it, then all of your fine talk is meaningless.”

Tom was startled into silence. He struggled to find the right words. “You could have sworn her to silence,” he said. “You could have done anything that didn’t leave you so _vulnerable.”_

“Believe me, I have learned _quite_ a lesson about vulnerability from this,” she said evenly. She swished her wand through the air, pointing it at Tom’s face and then at Harry’s, not casting anything, before allowing her arm to fall to her side. She sighed.

“I will curse anyone I hear saying it,” Harry said.

“So will I,” Tom growled in the next moment.

Hermione did not smile. “That’s all very well, but I have learned my lesson.” _I have learned more than one lesson,_ she thought. _Enemies repay favors with knives in the back, friends entertain rumors even if the source is untrustworthy, and it’s possible that Tom and I will never again have what we used to—if even that was real and I was not just deluding myself._ “I know what I have to do.” She walked to the door, opened it, and cast one last look at the young wizards. “And I’m doing it _myself.” Clearly,_ she thought, _I cannot count on anyone else._

That night, Hermione stood by the window in the Owlery, an uncharacteristically grim look on her face as she corked the glass flask she had conjured. It swirled with the white mist of a memory. She pricked her finger, pressed a drop of blood to the parchment to seal the Charm of Veracity, and rolled it up, addressing it to Lady Bellatrix Lestrange before sending it by owl.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Bellatrix Lestrange frowned deeply as she replaced the memory. This and the letter had come from a Mudblood, but they _were_ true. This was a conflict for her. A part of her did not want to act on the word of such a one, even if it bore a Veracity Charm and an unaltered memory. But the rest of her was outraged at the story that it told. How _dare_ one of their vassals do such a thing to her precious daughter! And it was also wrong for her daughter to be put in the position of having to accept the help of a Mudblood.

Bellatrix knew at once that she could not tell her husband about this. Rodolphus would not care that their vassal had raped Adelaide, under these circumstances. Indeed, he would not even consider it rape if Adelaide had been tipsy at the Yule—the _winter solstice_ party, Bellatrix corrected herself in thought. According to the Mudblood’s memory, Adelaide had muttered that the wizard thought he would get to marry her. Rodolphus probably _would_ force it if he knew that she had been deflowered and had been pregnant, even if it meant breaking off the vastly preferable betrothal with Draco Malfoy. That was unacceptable to Bellatrix. It could not happen. She would not allow it to happen….

But simply murdering the rapist herself would not do, she thought. Well—it _would_ have to be done, but she would have to cover her tracks and make him think someone else had done it. If she told Rodolphus that he had been a traitor, he still would not be satisfied. He had not “permitted” her to execute criminals without his formal approval, and he would demand evidence. Bellatrix would have to set up someone else, then.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Hermione at last cornered Adelaide Lestrange in a room—the very room where the potion-induced abortion had occurred, she thought with dark pleasure. She was not sure what she thought of this feeling of satisfied darkness. When she really focused on it, she felt as if something inside her, something beautiful and irreplaceable, had died—had been killed by the same metaphorical knife that stabbed her in the back—and this darkness had filled the hole. But it was a heated darkness, a red darkness of ruthless anger, not a cold and emotionless sort. It would have to do for now, then. Simmering in it, letting it fill her, she confronted Adelaide, who was obviously uncomfortable, wincing at the memories that the room invoked.

“You backstabbing _liar,”_ Hermione seethed, pointing her wand at Adelaide, whose own wand lay across the room where Hermione had caused it to fly with a disarming spell. “Why did you do it?” Without waiting for an answer, she cast a punching hex at her enemy.

Adelaide doubled over, wincing and swearing. She lifted her head to spit on the floor before Hermione. “I don’t answer to you, Mudblood,” she got out.

“You had better. You owed me, and instead you compounded it by spreading a lie about me. Why? You didn’t even have to ‘save face,’” she snarled. “No one saw you. You had _no reason_ to do it except spite.” She glared down at the girl, who was still hunched. “That’s it, isn’t it? You couldn’t _stand_ to accept help from a ‘Mudblood.’ You could not stand to owe me anything.”

“I… _don’t_ owe you anything,” Adelaide snapped, clutching her abdomen.

“That will certainly be true in a bit,” Hermione agreed. “I’m taking my payment _this_ way.” She cast another curse at the girl, this one causing her to fall to her knees with a cry. “I have already sent my _memory_ to your mother,” she said as she left the room. Adelaide looked up at her with horror in her eyes. “What comes of it is out of _my_ hands now.”

Hermione turned away coldly, opened the door, and pulled it closed behind her, making sure to lock it magically. Adelaide could get out eventually, but Hermione was not about to risk having a vindictive enemy sneaking up behind her. She stalked into the Slytherin common room, through the door to the girls’ dormitories, and into her own bedchamber, where she closed the door and warded it heavily.

As she gazed at herself in the mirror, the energy-sustaining hot darkness seemed to flee her body, leaving her feeling truly empty now. Seemingly of their own accord, tears formed in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks before she could stop them.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Scabior dangled from the stone walls, his wrists chained just high enough that he could not touch the floor with his feet. He had long stopped straining against the pain. His wand lay at his feet, snapped into several fragments, and his mostly naked body bore the signs of magical torture—the bleeding cuts, the bruises, the burns.

“You may be a pureblood,” Bellatrix hissed, prowling around him like a predator about to make its kill. “But you are a _low_ one, unworthy of touching my noble daughter even with your _hand.”_

Standing along the wall, Narcissa Black Malfoy gazed upon the proceedings, her gaze hard. She had not wanted to participate in the actual torture—she found it distasteful, albeit sometimes necessary—and she was not about to tell her sister some of her thoughts. It was a crime that this scum had raped Bella’s daughter, but in Narcissa’s opinion, it _did_ mean that Draco should not marry the girl. It was a pity, but so it was. Of course, she could not tell Lucius that. Lucius thought that she was simply visiting Bella right now. Somehow, she would have to find another pretext for breaking off the betrothal without mortally offending her own sister.

Scabior glared back at Bellatrix. “You are a coward,” he managed to get out. “A coward. Why not let your husband take his ‘justice’?”

“My _husband_ has a false idea of justice,” Bellatrix said. “And you know what he would have done. That is why you did it in the first place, scum.”

He sneered back wordlessly.

“You do not deserve a painless death,” she said, turning her wand around in her hands contemplatively, gazing up at him with a malevolent smirk on her face. “And I have plans for your corpse.” She drew out the moment as long as she could wait, making sure that he flinched in dread before raising her wand to point directly at his neck. Then she slashed it through the air.

A stream of blood erupted from the gaping gash, bright red and stinking of iron and copper. Bellatrix stepped backward almost elegantly, avoiding the spatter. She watched in sadistic delight as he bled out his life, choking on his own blood as his skin quickly paled. At last, his body went entirely limp.

Bellatrix smiled and cast another curse, this one to release him from the chains. The body crumpled to the bloodstained stone floor with a thud. Bellatrix stalked over to a corner and took out a long, heavy bag. She turned to her sister.

“Let us do this, then.”

Narcissa nodded, took a deep breath, and swished her wand through the air. Together the sisters magically slid the body into the heavy cloth bag. Narcissa cast a spell to lighten its apparent weight so that they could Apparate easily. With each of them holding one end of it, they linked their other hands together and Disapparated to Godric’s Hollow.

Bellatrix dusted herself off and took in her surroundings. A short distance away, the village slept. The imposing castle that used to belong to Gryffindor and now was owned by Lucius overlooked the town, but they were too far away, and their black cloaks blended in with the darkness of night. No one saw them as they dumped the mutilated body in the middle of the field and covered it haphazardly with dead leaves and snow. When someone found it and reported it to Lucius, it would look exactly as though the villagers had perpetrated the killing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adelaide in this chapter is something like Mayella Ewell in _To Kill a Mockingbird_. She was victimized, but in her own bigotry, she also betrays someone who tried to help her.
> 
> I wanted this arc to occur to further toughen up Hermione, to show how misogynistic this regime is, and for a reason related to Adelaide's development that will show up much later. In this story, the Norman wizarding families have adopted a lot more of the Muggle-based patriarchy culture than the English wizarding families—especially those like the Gaunts/Riddles that adhere to very old customs.
> 
> That said, we still haven't heard the last of this incident. After the next chapter, it may be a while before it comes up again, though.


	28. A Wound Ripped Open Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading and reviewing!
> 
> Enough people have expressed concern over this possibility in their reviews that I'm going to go ahead and spoil it: However bad it gets, neither of them will cheat on the other. I have read (and written, in one case) this for other pairings, but for Tomione it is profoundly unpleasant for me to consider, probably because of the nature of the 'ship. Hermione has to tolerate Tom's "quirks," so she should not have to put up with _that;_ and Tom—even this Tom—is so fragile, in a way, when it comes to love, that he shouldn't have to suffer a betrayal of it. Since this is not something I have any intention of doing with this pairing, in this story or others, and since people are worried about it, I don't mind spoiling that. (I'm _not_ going to spoil the answers to questions that do dance around future plot developments, even if the guesses aren't quite right. ;) )
> 
> **Warning:** Semi-graphic torture of a sympathetic character, and also a pretty bad fight between Tom and Hermione in this chapter. No physical violence (at least, I don't think what happens counts, in these circumstances), but a lot of petty spite, and Tom uses some ugly language with Hermione. These kids are quite intelligent and both of them would have some bones to pick with the other. However, they're still not mature enough to talk about what they need to talk about to truly reconcile: Tom is nowhere close to swallowing his pride and admitting he treated her wrong, and Hermione doesn't really want to consider that any of his plans may someday need to be put into action or that they would someday need to work together again.

_Godric’s Hollow._

Lucius Malfoy, lord of Godric’s Hollow, sat imperiously at the high seat as he considered what to do. A wizard’s body had been found on the outskirts of the town, half-buried in snow and debris, mutilated in a way that suggested torture. Generally, Lucius would care little about such matters; these villagers were mere commoners, and he still resented having been unable to identify the leaders of the failed rebellion sixteen years ago. If they wanted to kill each other in their petty disputes and brawls, let them! But in this case, the murdered man had been identified as a wizard of noble birth. His body bore the seal of House Scabior, a vassal of his kinsman by marriage, Rodolphus Lestrange. Lucius did not know all of the Lestrange vassals by sight, least of all if they had been dead for a while and found mutilated, but Narcissa confirmed the wizard’s identity. She was close to her sister and had recently visited Castle l’Etrange.

This… was a problem, Lucius thought in dismay. Scabior had not, apparently, been robbed. His coin was still on him, along with the family ring and other valuables, including his fine clothes. That and the strong signs of torture indicated to Lucius that the killer had murdered him not for such a low and common reason as to steal his baubles, but for far more personal reasons of some sort. It also implied that the killer was a wealthy person who cared nothing about the coin or valuables that Scabior carried. That could be very dangerous.

_Why would he even be here?_ Lucius thought. _It’s contrary to law and custom for one lord to send his vassals into another lord’s lands on the sly, without making a proper introduction to the ruling lord. This does not make sense. It would be no trouble for a wizard to travel magically. Just because the body was found here does not mean that the murderer was from this town. Either this killing has nothing to do with the villagers, or Lestrange sent him in secret, for some nefarious reason of his own. That could be. Narcissa and I certainly expected that we would land on his enemies list after he had my lord father killed. But why would the villagers kill Scabior, in that case? And why leave the coin? The valuables, perhaps, might be identifiable as his, and the family ring certainly would be, but why not take the money?_

_Could Lestrange himself have killed Scabior and set up this situation to cause unrest in my town if I punished the villagers indiscriminately? Or to see if I would react at all? If he did, Scabior must have fallen from grace already. Lestrange would not kill a loyal vassal of his._

Lucius rubbed his eyes in irritation. He would have to tell Lestrange about this, no question about that. He dreaded what would come of it. Sighing to himself, he rose to go to his private office to compose a letter.

Barely half an hour later, his house-elves were hurriedly announcing the arrival of Lord Lestrange himself, who was demanding audience with the lord and lady.

Lucius took in his brother-in-law’s beet-red face as he and Narcissa sat in their stately seats in the grand hall. The man was apoplectic. _Lestrange can be deceptive if he wishes, but he cannot make himself look this angry,_ Lucius thought. _If he did send Scabior to Godric’s Hollow, he was not expecting him to be murdered—and he certainly didn’t do it himself._ That conclusion did not help much, though; Lucius had not considered that possibility very likely in the first place.

“I demand restitution!” Lestrange bawled, spittle flying from his mouth before Lucius and Narcissa, much to their disgust. “This is an outrage! These lowborn barbarian peasants must be punished for it!”

Narcissa and Lucius exchanged quick looks. “Your lordship, we will certainly punish the guilty,” Lucius said, “but we must ascertain guilt first.”

“They did it! They obviously did it!”

“With all due respect, sir, it is not obvious,” Lucius disagreed. “A wizard or witch could have killed your vassal somewhere else and brought the body here by magic.”

Narcissa shifted in her seat a bit at this, but neither her husband nor Lestrange noticed.

“I _insist_ that they be questioned!” Lestrange exclaimed. “Your lord grandfather—I’ve told him too, and he agrees!”

“You told his high lordship?” Lucius exchanged another look with his wife. It was inevitable that Lord Malfoy would find out eventually, but it was offensive and troubling to Lucius that Lestrange was getting to him so quickly.

“Certainly! I’m surprised that you have not.” Lestrange eyed Lucius suspiciously.

Affronted, Lucius huffed, “Narcissa and I have been busy notifying _you_ and taking care of the body.” It was not quite true; the elves were tasked with that menial job, but what _was_ true was that Lestrange was being unreasonable to think it suspicious that they had not notified Armand Malfoy immediately. It was little to him. This was not one of his vassals.

Lestrange’s face turned sour and spiteful. “Very well—but I demand justice for this. I want every one of those villagers to be tortured until they talk.”

Lucius’s temper rose further still. “Lord Lestrange, I assure you that I will uphold the law—but no one but his high lordship himself will instruct me in my own castle about how to administer justice.”

Lestrange’s eyes popped. He was about to spout another burst of outrage, but Lucius continued. “The villagers revolted sixteen years ago. I will not risk a repeat of it by torturing those who were innocent in this. I _will_ have every person of magic questioned, and if that uncovers the guilty, they will suffer the full penalty of the law.”

Lestrange seethed but could not think of an argument to this.

“My lord,” Narcissa spoke up, “I am by no means suggesting that your vassal was responsible for his own murder… but supposing that my lord husband’s questioning finds that villagers from Godric’s Hollow killed him, what was he doing here in the first place? We had no word that he was in my husband’s lands. What business had he here, if you know?” She managed an even look on her face, feeling proud for covering for herself and Bella so well.

“I _don’t_ know,” Lestrange spat. “What of it? Can a wizard not go where he pleases?”

“If a nobleman enters another lord’s lands, it is customary for him to announce his presence,” Lucius said. _Rather than sneaking about at night like a thief,_ he thought. “You definitely did not send him on business, then?”

“I did not. Lord Lucius, it hardly matters. The fact is, my man was killed in your lands, and I insist that the murderer pay the price for it.”

* * *

True to his word, Lucius had his chief enforcers, MacNair and Dolores of Umbridge, summon every adult witch and wizard to the castle to be questioned under truth potion. They were feared in the village, Umbridge because of her proficiency at vicious torture curses, MacNair because of his knives and swords that he had magically enhanced on purpose to deliver a prolonged, miserable death. No one dared question either of them when they turned up at the villagers’ houses.

Lucius did not expect the questioning to uncover the killer. If a villager or villagers had killed Scabior, it made no sense that they would not have taken his money—and what possible reason would any of them have had for killing him, anyway, let alone brutally torturing him?

As Sirius Black was brought before them, his handsome face bitter with anger, Narcissa handed Lucius a goblet of potion, carefully keeping her own features as scornful as she truly felt for this black sheep, this traitor to his own kin— _her_ kin. What a disgrace it was that he chose to live with the Potters instead of taking his place as the heir of the Black family. Narcissa was almost certain, too, that Sirius had been intimately involved in the rebellion in 1130.

_“Should we question them about that, too, now that we are putting them under the influence of this potion?”_ she had asked Lucius.

He had considered it seriously before finally deciding against it. In other circumstances he would have; this was the very thing that he had been unable to do at the time of the rebellion because he did not have enough of the potion available, but he already felt under siege by Rodolphus Lestrange worming his way into his grandfather’s counsels, arranging for the death of his father, and pushing Lord Arcturus out of the picture. The last thing Lucius needed right now was for his own village to revolt, which they would certainly do if he executed the leaders of a rebellion that had occurred sixteen years ago—and if he executed _everyone_ who was involved in it, he would have little magical manpower left. He might not have known who the traitors were behind their masks, but he had seen their numbers. If it came to a siege, or even a war, Lucius needed more than a town of Muggles behind him. Perhaps the wretches would even become more loyal to him if he showed magnanimity in not pursuing the matter further and not torturing them over the death of Lestrange’s vassal.

Sirius Black drank the potion reluctantly. His face settled, the anger dissipating from it, as Lucius asked him the same question he had asked everyone before him—to no avail. Sirius Black knew nothing of the murder.

After Lucius and Narcissa had finally summoned all of the magical residents of the town, Lucius’s suspicion—and, though he did not know it, his wife’s knowledge—that it would not uncover the killer had been borne out.

* * *

Lestrange was still deeply angry about the murder, but he could not question the evidence of truth potion. “It must have been those Riddles,” he sniped the day after Lucius had finished the questioning.

Next to him, Armand Malfoy nodded gravely. “I saw the body. It was tortured, and I think that it was _ritual_ torture.”

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed in relief and excitement at this.

“With all due respect, my lord grandfather, it looked like ordinary torture to me,” Lucius said. “There did not appear to be any purpose or order to the markings.”

“Ah, but you have not seen what I have,” Armand said. He leaned forward in his chair. Narcissa and Lucius noted, with some disgust, that Lestrange was staring at the man as though he worshiped him. “My grandson, when I first sailed to this country, I accepted the oaths of many barbarian lords. One of them was the son of Salazar Slytherin, who chose to take his mother’s surname of Gaunt after his father left this country.”

“The great-grandfather of the present Lady Riddle, then,” Narcissa mused.

“Yes. I accepted his oath, and even chose to permit one rather… _peculiar…_ practice of the Gaunt family, because it did promote magical blood purity—very much so. I speak of the fact that the man was married to his own sister, and that the family apparently arranged such matches every few generations for just that purpose.”

Lucius and Narcissa suppressed their disgust. They had known of the marriage between Slytherin’s son and daughter, though they had not known that the practice of sibling incest went back further than that. Perhaps, Narcissa thought, Lady Riddle had debased herself with her elopement with a Muggle to avoid another such unnatural union. She was still a blood-traitor, but Narcissa could not much blame her for wanting to escape such a fate.

“But a custom of the Gaunts that I could not permit was the practice of pagan rites, including ritual human sacrifice,” Armand Malfoy continued. “Now, I care little about religious worship as such—but I do care about practices that would have attracted the attention of the Muggle king, and invited Muggle interference with my rule of this country’s magical population… and I also care about stamping out the foul barbaric rituals of an uncivilized ancient culture. I ordered Gaunt never to practice such magic. He swore that he did not, that indeed, the family had not done it since the founding of Hogwarts, but they used to, so the lore must exist in their family library.”

“Have you seen a description of such a ritual, then?” Lucius pressed. “Something that resembles the markings on Scabior’s body?”

For a moment Armand looked caught out, but then the mask of pride suffused his face once more. “I am quite certain that the markings are the result of a Celtic sacrifice ritual,” he said, “and we know that the half-blood has defied one of my laws, the one about Celtic and Anglo-Saxon symbols. Furthermore, Lestrange tells me that Scabior was the vassal who went to Hogwarts to post my _recent_ laws on the walls there. Riddle would have seen it. I think that either his mother, the half-blood Severus Snape, or Riddle himself did it.”

“My _lord,_ he is a pupil at Hogwarts,” Lucius exclaimed. “How would he have left the school and captured one of your vassals—an adult wizard? And why would he have then brought the body to Godric’s Hollow?”

“Indeed,” Narcissa agreed. “Draco has told us that Riddle, the Granger girl, and young Potter are a trio. Why would he do something that would cause problems for a friend’s family?”

“Perhaps he sees Potter as a rival for the girl,” Lestrange said shrewdly. “But if it wasn’t Riddle himself, it must have been the mother or Snape.”

“We do not know that these markings have anything to do with Celtic sacrificial rituals,” Lucius protested.

“Well, I believe your lord grandfather,” Lestrange said pointedly, his gaze drilling a figurative hole in Lucius’s. “He knows more about such things than we do.”

A part of Lucius wanted to continue his objection. As far as he was concerned, their present problems ultimately stemmed from his grandfather’s determination to bully and antagonize the Riddle family. Lucius was ready to let it alone, let the blood-traitors have their fief and the disgraceful marriage to a Mudblood. He had come to agree with his wife’s family, especially Lord Arcturus—and he definitely did not agree that the torture marks on Scabior looked like anything in particular. His grandfather might believe it, but he saw exactly what he wanted to see. Lestrange was harder to read; it might be sycophancy, or it might be something else. Lucius was growing increasingly convinced that this murder _was_ some sort of conspiracy, and not at all what it appeared to be, but he could not figure out what it was just yet. Lestrange had truly been angry—and surprised—to learn of Scabior’s death. If not for that, Lucius would have been certain that Lestrange had arranged for all of this in order to pin it on the Riddles. Someone else was involved, but Lucius had no idea who—and that unknown frightened him. What were they dealing with?

“I do not know about ritual sacrificial markings,” Bellatrix said, “but it is certainly true that the Riddles have a motive.” She shared a meaningful look with her sister. This wasn’t their intention, but if they could get the Riddles blamed for it, it would be a good thing. Bellatrix was surprised when Narcissa did not look as enthusiastic about that prospect.

“I have difficulty believing that the Lady Riddle would have done it… word is that she likes to keep her robes clean of blood,” Lucius objected. Bellatrix shot him a hostile glare, and they both eyed each other with dislike.

Lestrange snorted. “Not too clean if she let a Muggle into her bed and has her son marry a Mudblood!”

Bellatrix laughed maliciously at that. “A fair point.”

“I have heard it too, though,” Lestrange said more seriously, “and that would include dispatching Severus Snape to do it for her. If any of them did it, it would have been the young wizard, pupil at Hogwarts or no.”

Bellatrix’s dark eyes were glittering with glee.

“If it please your high lordship”—he glanced respectfully at Armand Malfoy—“I think someone should be sent to Hogwarts to interrogate the half-blood. It must be on your orders, though—no one else has the authority to overrule the High Master in his castle.”

“With pleasure,” said Armand maliciously.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom got himself ready for the day in his bedchamber, his thoughts swirling—as they often did lately—in inescapable vortices of frustration. The more he thought about—well— _everything,_ the more frustrated he became. He was no closer to finding the Chamber of Slytherin and claiming his birthright. His friends had deceived him, he thought grouchily. They had led him to believe that they had knowledge of school history that they had acquired growing up as wizard noble lordlings, but it was not true. The real information just _had_ to be in his home library—books that his mother had hexed. He was pretty sure that he knew most of what there was to know about his other great ancestors, since his mother had removed the hexes from the main books about Morgana and Arthur and their fellows, but if he wanted to ever stake his claim, he would need more than words to back it up. More, even, than magic. He would need the great weapon of Slytherin. That he had decided. It was a pity that he could not speak Draconic, the language of dragons, but so it was. Since he could not have a dragon, a basilisk was just about the most fearsome magical beast otherwise, and only Parselmouths could control it. He would not _use_ the basilisk against… well… many people—Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange excepted—but who would stand in the way of a wizard with such a creature by his side?

He was also irritated about Hermione. What had she been _thinking?_ Tom supposed he could understand why she would want to make the potion for Adelaide, but why not swear the girl to secrecy? Why not use memory magic on her? And then she had apparently sent the information to Lady Lestrange! More was going to come of this, Tom had no doubt about it. But more than that, he was irritated because it appeared that Hermione would forgive _that_ bitch before she would forgive him—and what had he done, really, in comparison? Adelaide Lestrange had harassed her for two and a half years. She had led many Slytherin girls in the shameful attack during Hermione’s first week. Tom’s mother had declared her family enemies of the Riddles! They had _never_ been friends—and yet, because she was female, Hermione was willing to do something kind for her, and attempt to heal the wounds, as soon as she saw Adelaide in a hard situation. _What about my troubles?_ Tom thought resentfully. _What about being kind to me? It’s almost as if Hermione’s problem is with me alone._

He knew from Legilimency that she had not dallied with Potter or other wizards in their estrangement. There was that, at least—that noble honor that Hermione had so insisted upon when she was younger and their betrothal had just begun. Tom understood it now, at last. It was true that the idea of touching other witches held no appeal, but he also had quite a bit of pride. He was better than to feel that sort of weakness, let alone succumb to it. But that did not mean that he was not deeply annoyed with Hermione over the past year.

_She seems determined to finish her schooling at the same time I do,_ he thought. _That’s the summer after this one._ The competitive jealousy, which he had felt when Hermione had advanced to three mastery classes this year, earlier than he had, had mostly vanished. He knew he could have advanced that quickly as well if he had been a swot like Hermione and focused on little except studies as she did. It was his _choice_ to research “extracurricular” subjects as well. _Does she not realize that if she does, she has little more than a year to make amends with me before we marry—and then she’ll have to let me touch her. We’ll have to live as husband and wife. Does she not even think about that?_ A year might seem like a long time for some things, but after their fight over a year ago, Tom had not expected for one second that they would still be estranged now. Hermione’s stubbornness had surprised him. If she could hold out for a year and a quarter already, why not two and a half?

_Perhaps it is improving now,_ he thought, pulling on his outer robe—the dark green one with Celtic designs on the edges. Hermione had been almost civil with him when she had asked about protecting his mother’s castle from Malfoy’s tax assessors. And when she had confronted him and Potter over the ugly rumor, it could have easily escalated—but it didn’t. Perhaps things were about to change for the better. _And I do have formal alliances—or my mother does—with my friends’ families now,_ he thought. _Alliances that my friends’ parents made knowing perfectly well about Hermione. Maybe I should assure her that it won’t happen again, since there’s no reason for it to happen anymore. We need to be united again, so that she doesn’t do ill-considered things like her dealings with Adelaide and Lady Lestrange._

Tom finished his morning routine and headed down the boys’ corridor toward the Slytherin common room. He pushed open the door.

“And there he is right now!” crowed an unfamiliar male voice.

Tom immediately identified the speaker. A scruffy wizard dressed in fine robes that did not fit him very well was speaking with Master Slughorn, who bore an expression of mixed outrage and helplessness.

“My lord Carrow, this is all very irregular,” Slughorn protested. “Lord Thomas is my pupil, and High Master Dumbledore presides here. How can you make such a demand?”

_Carrow?_ Tom thought, anger suddenly flaring up inside him. He drew his wand and pointed it at the stranger. “Carrow, is it?” he said roughly. He sneered. “How dare you put yourself in my presence, _traitor._ My mother has you and your sister under a death sentence.”

Slughorn winced. “Tom, don’t.”

Amycus Carrow’s eyes glinted malevolently. “His high lordship Malfoy pardoned me,” he said. He turned to Slughorn. “And this brat has already said it, old man. I will add that to the list of offenses. Furthermore, as I have said, and this scroll proves”—he waved a scroll in Slughorn’s face—“it was his high lordship who sent me here, not Lord Lestrange. Dumbledore _must_ allow this, and so must you.”

Slughorn looked helplessly at Tom. “I’m sorry, T—Lord Thomas.”

“What is going on?” Tom said darkly. “What is the meaning of this?”

“You are suspected to have a hand in the murder and torture of Lord Scabior, who was in service to Lord Lestrange.”

_“What?!”_ Tom exclaimed hotly. “How _dare_ you—” Instantly a suspicion filled his mind, one that vanquished all of his good feeling toward Hermione.

Carrow smiled. “Don’t worry—yet. I am here only to question you.”

“Do it, then, filth. Question me. Right here.” He glared at Carrow. “I will even take truth serum. I’ll tell you _everything_ I know about Lestrange’s _vassals.”_

“Oh, no,” Carrow said. “Not here. You must surrender your wand to Slughorn, and you will come with me to a private location in the castle for it.” He unrolled the scroll. “That’s authorized too.”

Slughorn extended his hand shakily. “Please, Tom, just cooperate,” he urged. “I’m sure you had nothing to do with that business, and it’s better just to prove it—”

Tom gaped at his professor in disbelief. “I cannot believe you trust these people,” he said. “When did they ever need proof of anything? They do as they please, especially now.”

Slughorn’s eyes were frightened and defeated. “Tom, please, let me have your wand. I will stand guard outside the room, how about that?”

Tom was tempted, greatly tempted, just to strike Carrow dead as he stood. He knew how. It would be easy. There were multiple curses that would do it, some quicker than others, some more painful than others. It was such a temptation… but it would also be an act of war, and he was not ready to take that step yet. _If I just had Slytherin’s basilisk—_ but he did not.

Warily, shooting his professor a look of disappointment, he passed his wand to Slughorn. Then he turned to Carrow. “All right, filth. Let’s get this over with.”

Carrow smirked and led Tom and Slughorn out of the Slytherin common room, into one of the dungeon rooms that were currently unused. He threw open the door and gestured for Tom to go in. Haughtily he stepped across the threshold, fury simmering in every cell of his body. He rather hoped that he would be able to channel that anger into wandless magic. Wouldn’t _that_ surprise this traitorous scum?

Carrow closed the door behind them with a clang, leaving Slughorn on the outside. He turned to Tom with a malevolent smirk on his ugly face as he drew his wand.

“Incidentally, whelp, I also notice that you continue to wear those robes,” Carrow said.

Tom did not respond to that. “Get to the point.”

Carrow scowled. “Very well. Here are the facts. Lord Scabior’s body was found mutilated on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow. Lord Lucius Malfoy questioned every single witch and wizard in the village under truth potion, but none of them had anything to do with the killing or even knew about it.” He glared at Tom. “His high lordship concluded, with the concurrence of my own lord Lestrange”—he smirked pointedly at Tom when he said this—“that the markings on his body were ritualistic. It’s well known that your foul family practiced ancient barbarian rites into the time of the Founders, and your own apparel proves that _you_ are fascinated with such things.”

“Malfoy is wrong,” Tom said, trying hard to control his words and not utter an insult. “I had nothing to do with it. You said you were going to question me, Carrow. Get on with it, and see how wrong you are.”

Carrow flicked his wand, and sudden, intense pain shot through Tom’s body. He crumpled, almost falling to the stone floor, but managed to right himself.

“Scabior was the one who posted the new rules in this school,” Carrow snarled, advancing on Tom. “That offended you, didn’t it, whelp?” He slashed his wand again, sending a renewed surge of pain that felt to Tom like a knife plunging into his spine.

Tom gritted his teeth and crumpled again, trying mightily to avoid giving Carrow the pleasure of seeing him cry out in pain. “It did offend me,” he spat, “but I didn’t kill the bastard over it.”

_Rrrrrrip!_ Tom gasped as the edges of his wide sleeves tore away from the rest of the robe, leaving the beautiful embroidery in a frayed pile on the floor. But he could not concentrate too long on that, for in the very next second, Carrow sent another torture curse at him, causing him to double over. He closed his eyes, letting his anger suffuse him as the waves of pain poured over his body, hoping that his own magic would explode out of him wandlessly.

Yet another sharp pain hit him, this one across his face. He felt a hot trickle of fluid immediately. Several drops of blood struck the stone floor.

“You know why my sister and I left your family?” Carrow hissed. “Your uncle was a swine and your mother was a whore! The Lestranges and Malfoys are right that _your kind_ are uncivilized.”

Tom gazed up at Carrow, his own blood dripping from the slash across his forehead, the hot anger of hate filling him up. “Go fuck yourself, traitor.”

Another cutting curse hit him, opening gashes on his arms. His blood streamed down his skin, dripping from his fingers. Could Slughorn not _hear_ any of this?

“What did you _do,_ whelp?” Carrow snarled.

Tom wobbled to his feet and faced the wizard, loathing in his eyes. “You want to know what happened, who I think is the killer? Here’s what happened! Some vassal of Lestrange _raped_ his daughter—and since Scabior is dead, I’ll guess he was the one. Lady Hermione learned about it and wrote to Lady Lestrange. _She_ probably was the killer!”

“How dare you, you forked-tongued liar!”

Tom blinked as blood continued to drip down his face. He steadied himself and then noticed something. A corked vessel protruded from the purse that Carrow had around his belt. “Is that truth serum?” he snarled. He stepped forward. “Give it to me. I’ll prove what I say.”

Carrow considered for a moment, seemingly wanting to torture Tom some more, but then he pulled the flask out of his purse. “Very well. I’ll give it to you now, and _I_ will have proof that you are a murderer and a liar. Defaming my lord’s daughter, his lady wife, and his dead vassal—you will be in such trouble, half-blood!” He uncorked it and shoved the rim of the flask against Tom’s mouth.

Tom sneered and yanked it away, downing it in one gulp. He sat down on the stone floor as the effects of the potion took hold, leaving him feeling empty and emotionless. At least the pain lessened. Carrow smiled darkly and, at last, began his questioning.

In a little bit, the smile had fled permanently from Carrow’s face. He was deeply troubled by what he was hearing. _This cannot go any further,_ he thought, getting to his feet at last. _His lordship cannot know about this. He will surely execute his wife if he learns—unless she kills him to defend herself—and either way, the Black family will turn against everyone who supported the Lestranges or his high lordship Malfoy. I have to keep this secret and simply report back that the boy actually was innocent. Innocent of this, at least._

Leaving Tom crumpled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, he went to the door, opened it, and sneered at Slughorn. “I am finished here,” he said. “I’ll let you clean up.”

“Clean up?” Slughorn said sharply. “What did you _do—”_ He peeked in the door. “Oh, no!” He scurried into the cell-like room as Carrow made his escape.

* * *

As Potions Master, Professor Slughorn always kept antidotes with him. Tom was immensely grateful for it. Although Carrow had not poisoned him, Slughorn also had a potion that would ease the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. He handed Tom back his wand, and together they healed the cuts on Tom’s forehead and arms, cleaned up the blood, and repaired the torn sleeves. Tom felt a grim satisfaction as the threads joined back together, leaving the knotwork designs as good as new.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Tom,” Slughorn said, “I am so very sorry—I wish I could have prevented that—”

“I do not blame _you.”_

The words were icy, but Slughorn assumed that it was only because of the ordeal that Tom had just suffered. He nodded. “Tom, you should return to the common room. There are no classes today, of course. You should spend some time with your lady.”

_Yes, I should,_ Tom thought, though he was quite certain that he did not have the same thing in mind that his teacher did. None of this would have happened if Hermione had not been so reckless, and he was going to have some words with her.

When Hermione emerged from the girls’ bedchamber in a few minutes, Tom instantly rose from his seat to approach her.

“Tom, what’s the matter?” she asked. He looked awfully pale to her.

He smiled, but it was not a sincere smile or a happy one. He offered her his arm. “We had better have this discussion in private.”

“Discussion? Discuss _what?”_ she demanded.

He lowered his voice. “Your antics had consequences,” he said, his tone severe and angry. “We need to have a little talk.” Without waiting for her to accept his arm, he grabbed her and ushered her out of the Slytherin common room and into another small room on the dungeon level— _not_ the one in which he had just been tortured, though.

“Tom!” Hermione exclaimed when he closed the door and bolted it. “What are you doing? What happened?”

He turned to her, his eyebrows narrowed in anger, his wand out. “What _happened,_ you ask. Here’s what happened! Because of your letter to Bellatrix Lestrange, their vassal Scabior is _dead—”_

Hermione sniffed. “I assume you’re implying that she killed him for what he did to Adelaide? He was the rapist? Why should I care, then? Good riddance.”

“I agree, but do you really imagine that she told her husband the truth?” Tom said, his eyes hard and angry. “You may be an idealist, but I hope even _you_ aren’t _that_ naïve.”

She glared at him for the insult. “What are you implying?”

He pushed up the sleeve of his left arm. _“Carrow,_ the traitor, came to this school this morning with an order from _Armand Malfoy_ to ‘interrogate’ _me_ over it! He claimed that Malfoy had decided the torture marks looked like Celtic ritual markings.” He pointed at the healing wound. “He tortured me!”

Hermione blanched. “Tom, I never meant that to happen! I just told Lady Lestrange what had happened. I would _never_ do something on purpose to hurt you!”

“Well, that’s what happened,” Tom sneered as his sleeve covered his arm again. “If Carrow had not been ordered to also question me under truth serum, I’m sure I would have been carried off to be executed—for a murder I hadn’t committed!” He stared at her. “I know you didn’t mean it to happen, but the fact is that it _wouldn’t_ have happened if you had not made Adelaide Lestrange’s business your own and _then_ involved her mother in it!”

Hermione drew her wand and pointed it back at him, noting that he held his in hand. “This is not my fault,” she said, “and I will not accept blame for it. The fault lies with Carrow, Armand Malfoy, and the Lestranges—and Scabior himself, of course. _Not_ with me.”

“You shouldn’t have done it alone,” he insisted. “You should have worked with me. I was tortured because of this. I could have been put to death, Hermione!” he exclaimed, noting how her eyes grew wide and fearful when he said that. “Oh, and another thing that the filth said to me was that the rapist’s body was found outside Godric’s Hollow, and that Lucius Malfoy questioned all of the villagers about it. Even your precious _Potter’s_ family.”

She grimaced again. “I never meant for these things to happen, and I cannot believe you still think that I fancy Harry. Though at least he has been a friend to me,” she added, “which is more than I can say for _you_ the past year.”

Tom felt a white heat surge up in him. He stepped forward, closing most of the distance between Hermione and himself. His breath was heaving as he gazed into her brown eyes. “I know you haven’t touched him,” he said, his voice low and dark. “You are _mine,_ and don’t you ever forget that.” He stared at her face, anger suddenly warring with intense desire and lust. It had been a long time since he had even kissed her….

She stared back, gazing at his dark eyes. His face was equally handsome when he was angry as when he was happy—and seeing his chest heave, feeling the heat of his breath close by, brought out feelings that she had tried her best to suppress while they were estranged. _I swore I wouldn’t let him touch me again until he apologized,_ she thought—

They closed the distance at the same time, lips slamming against each other. As if moving of their own accord, Hermione’s hands found his cheeks and threaded into his black hair. He growled and wrapped his arms tightly around her back as he forced her lips open and began to plunder her mouth, trying to pour the unfulfilled desires of a year and three months of deprivation into this one kiss, trying to prove his words to her.

Hermione allowed him to do this even as her thoughts warred with each other. It was just so good to share intimacy with him again, any sort of physical intimacy—even as he was so obviously claiming her, what with the way he was plundering every corner of her mouth that he could reach, his teeth nipping against her lips—

_He thinks he can do anything he wants with me,_ she thought. That thought brought another surge of anger to her, but it did not overpower the desire she felt. Instead, it mixed with it. Instinctively she lunged and bit his lower lip— _hard._ He jerked, his eyes popped open, and to her own dark satisfaction, she tasted iron and copper as he pulled away. He gaped at her and licked his own blood from his mouth.

“You _dare—”_ he began to say, but he seemed to change his mind. A wolfish grin spread across his face. “You are bold, Hermione.”

She stared back evenly, not taking the bait this time. “I swore that I would not let you touch me until you apologized to me for your past behavior.”

Tom felt as if she had thrown ice water over him. All thoughts of lust and desire fled his mind, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You did that to push me away?” he exclaimed. “You _meant_ to hurt me?”

Hermione decided not to answer that. She did not know herself exactly what she thought about what had just happened, either the kiss or her sudden urge to bite his lip. _Had_ she wanted to hurt him, to cause him pain and draw blood, to punish him for the kiss? He hadn’t forced it… she had met him halfway…. Pushing it out of her mind, she met his gaze with her own. “I am not going to let you distract me that way, Tom.”

He stared at her, feeling almost as though she had slapped him in the face—or cursed him. “So that’s it, then?” he said harshly, ice filling his marrow to replace the heat that had just been there. “You did mean to hurt me. All right. That brings me to my _other_ point,” he said. His eyebrows narrowed again. “Why were you more eager to make amends with _Adelaide Lestrange_ than with me?” His voice became menacing, as the memories of the torture this morning came to the forefront of his thoughts again. “You saw her sobbing over a cauldron with a story to tell—”

“A _true_ story.”

“—and even though she has bothered you for two and a half years, even though she set up a sack of pig’s blood to fall on you in your first week at Hogwarts, even though her bitch of a mother tried to _murder_ you and my mother named the entire family enemies for harboring _traitors,_ you still were far more willing to be kind to _her_ than to me!” he finished in outrage. “What is it, Hermione? Why were you more willing to forgive _that_ cunt—”

“Tom Riddle!”

He ignored her exclamation of outrage. It was a good old English word, and he was not going to be shamed for using it because robber lords might consider it vulgar. “—than me? What did I do to you that is so much worse than what she has done over the years? Is it that she’s a witch—or that she’s half-Norman too?” He did not know what made him say that last; it was not something he had considered in his musings before Carrow hurt him, but evidently it was lurking in the recesses of his mind anyway and the torture had brought it out.

Hermione gaped at Tom in astonishment and then fury. “How dare you!” Without her conscious intent, sparks fell from the tip of her wand. “How _dare_ you! If I had seen you in the room where Carrow tortured you, I would have come to you and helped you. That’s all it was, Tom—helping someone who was suffering! I didn’t forgive her for anything. I admit I _hoped_ that she would feel a sense of obligation and stop her behavior, but I knew it wasn’t going to make us best friends.”

“‘Helping someone who was suffering’ was all it was, you say?” he mocked. “And it would have been the same for me if you had seen me this morning? That’s all I am to you now, someone that you can treat as a victim to ‘help’ with your superior beneficence?” He gave her a sneer of disgust. “Patronizing Norman occupiers are little better than tyrannical ones.”

Hermione snarled. “If you want to know why I haven’t forgiven you yet, it’s because you obviously do not believe, even now, that you did anything wrong!” She pointed her wand threateningly at his face. “I do not grant that you ‘needed’ to demean me in front of your little friends, but since you _think_ you needed to, what about now, Tom? Your mother has formal defensive alliances with all of them, and whatever your ‘Lords of Beltane’ might think, their parents know full well that we are under contract! They made the alliances anyway. So what’s your excuse now?”

Tom had thought that very thing himself this morning, and if the morning had gone differently, he might have been more reasonable on the topic. But he was angry now—furious over the fact that he had been tortured by a traitor to his family, that someone had dared raise a hand to deface the craft of his ancestors that he proudly wore, that Hermione would hurt him and then presume to patronize him after he had just suffered torture. _Hermione,_ who ought to be as loyal and devoted to him as his mother. He was furious, and he was also frightened. If Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange had been just a little more lawless and tyrannical, he really _would_ have been taken out of the school to be put to death for a “crime” he hadn’t committed. They had been getting worse and worse with time; it was very possible that someday they would indeed cross that line. A sharp terror suffused him at the thought. He couldn’t let it happen! By _whatever_ means necessary, he couldn’t let that happen. He had so much to accomplish—

“My friends’ parents don’t know the full truth,” he said, the words tumbling off his bruised lips almost without his conscious control.

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed.

He smirked in malicious pleasure. “On the very first day of our betrothal, my mother made a bargain with me,” he said recklessly. “Do you know what it was, Hermione? Of course you don’t. It’s been a secret. My mother promised me, _as a witch,_ that if I didn’t _want_ to marry you when the time came, she would break it off.”

_“What?”_ Hermione breathed.

“It’s true,” he said cruelly. “She promised me that, and she told me that she wouldn’t even tell your parents about it.”

“You’re lying,” she protested, her eyes wide with horror. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.” He raised his hand, holding his wand. “I swear on my magic.” The tip of his wand flared bright white for a moment.

Hermione gasped at the confirmation. “You may have said it, but you don’t mean it,” she said. “It was just the first day—I remember—you _can’t_ still mean it—”

He smirked back wordlessly.

That smirk sent Hermione into a storm of rage. So he thought he could mention things that had happened on the day that they had met, as if nothing since then had meant anything to him? She wasn’t fooled. He had just called her “his.” She was not going to let him get to her this way, and in fact, _she_ would be the one to shock him now. Angrily she snarled at him, “So that’s how it is? Perhaps I might just accept that, if this is how you are always going to treat me! Why should I marry someone who threatens me with things he doesn’t intend to follow through with, just to be cruel and exert power?”

“You presume much,” he shot back without thinking.

Tears instantly formed in her wide eyes, but she would not let them fall. She gaped at him one last time before fleeing the room, leaving him alone to his turbulent—and regretful—thoughts.


	29. Consequences and Counterattacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all of your support! I apologize (in a "sorry not sorry" way, haha) for the scene involving the Black family. You'll probably see why when you read it.

_His High Lordship Armand Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire and Lord of Wizards and Witches in England, Scotland, and Wales._

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England_

_Your Esteemed Lordship,_

_Today I received a report of a most distressing nature, which it behooves me to bring to your attention, as it concerns the treatment of pupils in my care and the implicit pacts I have with their parents to protect them while they are on castle grounds. This morning, I was prevented from upholding my part in one such contract._

_Lord Amycus Carrow, claiming the authority of your lordship and that of Lord Rodolphus Lestrange, demanded entry to the castle to conduct a “questioning” of one of my scholars concerning the death of Lord Scabior. He presented no evidence that the young wizard in question, Lord Thomas Riddle, had been involved in the apparent murder, but invoked your lordship’s name to gain access. He further demanded that Lord Thomas surrender his wand and submit to this “questioning” alone and unaccompanied by a Master of Hogwarts even as an observer. At this point, Lord Carrow proceeded to torture Lord Thomas, subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse and to several cutting curses that can cause permanent scars if not healed swiftly and expertly. Only after inflicting needless pain upon Lord Thomas did Lord Carrow actually question him under Veritaserum—at which point he learned that Lord Thomas was indeed innocent in the apparent murder._

_Master Horace Slughorn attests to the fact that the order, which bears your name, did not grant permission to torture a pupil of Hogwarts or remove him from the professors. I therefore implore you to punish Lord Carrow for exceeding the authority that your lordship’s name granted him, and I formally request pecuniary restitution of fifty gold pieces from Carrow’s property for the torture of an innocent young wizard, to be remitted to Lady Merope Riddle, Baroness of Hangleton._

_Sincerely,_

_High Master Albus Dumbledore, Lord of Hogwarts_

Albus Dumbledore smiled grimly at that signature. It was a provocation to send it, but this was entirely unacceptable. He did not even particularly _like_ Tom Riddle personally, nor his mother, but the principle of this was what mattered. These people could not get the idea that they could torture innocent Hogwarts students—or worse—with impunity. He sealed the letter and sent it on its way, wondering what the response would be, if any.

* * *

Elsewhere in the castle, Tom contined to fume. He could not _believe_ Hermione! He had just been tortured, and her reaction was to proclaim that it certainly was not _her_ fault—and then to patronize him with her reassurances that she would have “helped” him. Tom supposed, for a moment, that he _had_ come to Hermione to place partial blame on her, so her defensiveness was at least understandable in that regard… but he was right about this, damn it. She should have been more careful. Charging forward like a Gryffindor and then using halfhearted Slytherin tactics after the inevitable consequences unfolded just was not sufficient. If she wanted to act like a Slytherin while keeping her Gryffindor idealism intact, she should have modified Adelaide Lestrange’s memory to make her think she had made her own bloody potion. This was _obvious,_ Tom groused to himself. By making herself vulnerable, and then playing at political intrigue with her little note to Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione had set in motion a chain of events that, so far, had led to his torture, the interrogation of every witch and wizard in Godric’s Hollow—and he was not convinced that it was over yet.

He did not want to admit it, but she had hurt him when she had compared his torture to Adelaide’s situation and said, oh-so-reassuringly, that she would have helped him too. Was that all that he was to her now? She had eagerly participated in the fiery kiss that had spontaneously happened… but then she had recoiled and pushed him away with a skin-breaking bite. Maybe… Tom hated to think it, but maybe she actually didn’t feel anything for him except lust.

 _She spends her time with Potter’s group, who are absolutely up to something—or, at least, their families are. She plays at intrigue and creates disasters—including one, now, that could have cost me my life. Her interactions with me now consist of fighting. What if she was not lying with her parting words? She was shocked when I told her of my bargain with Mother, but she recovered really fast._ Tom fretted over his thoughts.

 _She’s part-Norman. She was raised in the Muggle culture. I have been very, very proud of my ancestry, wizarding and ethnic, and perhaps she has decided to take personal offense. She certainly was affronted before, when we were on good terms, over occasional statements I made, even though I never meant them to include her. As a witch, she has been exposed to a culture in which women can be strong and much more independent than Muggle women… but one thing we do have in common with the Muggles is our instinctive loyalty to family. She could be very loyal to hers and feel empowered to take that position in front of me because she knows that witches can._ Tom was not wholly convinced; Hermione never spoke much of her family, and her parents rarely saw her except for very brief visits during the summer and winter. It seemed that once they had a betrothal agreement for her, they lost a lot of interest in her—or saw her as an adult. Tom thought that Hermione’s attendance at Hogwarts was probably also a factor for them. In any case, why would she feel so much loyalty to people like that instead of to… _well,_ he thought grudgingly, _perhaps not me, right now, but to Mother? Mother has been very good to her._ Still, the ties of blood ran deep.

Tom regretted how the discussion had ended. He had not actually meant what he said, and he was not sure that she did either… but those thoughts were clearly circulating in their minds or they wouldn’t have come out. Perhaps it was inevitable, if that really was how Hermione felt. What did it mean for the future? _She must finish Hogwarts,_ he thought at once. _She has to do that. I won’t break the contract and get her tossed out of school. Afterward…._ Tom sighed deeply. _Afterward, we’ll see. The contract says that the deadline for a public wedding is two months after we have both completed our education. She will probably finish at the same time I do, next summer. There is still time… but if we’re still on poor terms, I will have to think about whether I want to invoke my mother’s promise._

 _Hermione acts like she has no interest in my political goals, but I can’t believe that her ancestry has much to do with that. She has not even expressed a preference about the Muggle pretenders, which she would if she were a Norman partisan in politics. I think that she doesn’t really believe, even now, that it is likely to get violent. She’s probably telling herself that to avoid the unpleasant reality… or she does know what the Friends of the Founders’ families are up to and supports it, though I hope not. I think it’s the first, and in that case, she must still expect that her life will be what her parents probably taught her for twelve years that it would be: marrying a noble, being lady of the castle, having children with him, doing the things that her own mother did. Her parents have been neutral in the Muggle war, but if a wizarding war erupts, we’ll be at the center of it… and if she does become my family, officially, then she has to scheme with me. There’s really no choice._ He paused his rapid thoughts. _Scheme with me, or… choose to lead that drab life. But I wanted my future wife to be more than just the mother of my heirs. Hermione is brilliant and powerful and strong. I wanted her to be a partner in all my schemes, not an ornament for the castle. I thought she would want that too… but what if she feels so little for me that she’s resigned to the other?_

He reflected on the fact that Hermione was not a maiden anymore. That might be a problem for—suddenly Tom’s mind revolted, unable to even complete the thought. _No._ The idea of someone else with her was something he could not even contemplate. But what to do? He considered, for a brief moment, the arrangement that his mother had with Severus Snape. He was her personal advisor and chief vassal, and Tom had wondered before about romantic interest between them, but they had never pursued it, to his relief. Perhaps that was what he should offer Hermione in the future… _but she’ll have to be fully on my side politically,_ he thought—and he still wanted to have more than that. He wanted what they used to have. But did she still want it?

Tom’s mood soured. This problem did not seem to have a solution—at least, not one that he could control. Best to put it out of his mind for now, then. He had additional things to worry about, like the renewed urgency of finding the Chamber of Slytherin over the next year and three months. Nobody would dare torture him if he had a basilisk at his side.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Armand Malfoy sat on his great throneline chair, smiling serenely as Rodolphus Lestrange approached with his goblet. Two elves accompanied Lestrange, looking properly servile as they carried wine and sweetmeats to the high lord.

Lestrange tried to avoid looking at the potion inside the dark goblet—silver, white, and mother-of-pearl shining sinisterly in the light—as he approached Malfoy. He wished he could have the confidence that his high lord did that handling this was harmless. The substance itself looked wrong, somehow. Armand Malfoy was a great man, Lestrange thought, a hero of their race and people, and it was an honor to serve him, but….

“My lord,” he said in a low voice as he reached the high seat. Armand Malfoy extended a frail hand and took the goblet. He drank deeply as the elves set down the food and wine and made themselves scarce, lingering by the doorway in case the lords needed anything.

Malfoy finished the ghastly white potion and set down the empty goblet. He gestured for Lestrange to sit on the second chair and help himself to food and wine. Relieved, Lestrange assented.

“I have heard the most interesting news,” Malfoy stated.

“Oh, my lord?”

Malfoy smiled grandly, an evil gleam in his eye. “Yes. First, Dumbledore presumed to write to me, demanding restitution to Lady Riddle from Carrow’s estate.” He laughed.

Lestrange chuckled dutifully.

“Of course, I sent the coin at once.”

Lestrange stopped laughing and stared at Malfoy for a moment. “My lord?”

“Certainly,” Malfoy stated. “Carrow has already displeased me, of course, which is why you are here and not he. It is not as if Dumbledore asked for _my_ gold to go to the woman. And apparently the half-blood wretch _was_ innocent, as surprising as that was. I thought you would find it amusing, though.”

“I do indeed, my lord,” Lestrange said.

“More importantly, I received a letter stating that the late Morfin Gaunt died under highly suspicious circumstances and that there is ample reason to believe that the half-blood Severus Snape poisoned him.”

Lestrange started. “My lord, are you quite sure of that? Gaunt died of a digestive ailment incurred after a large meal, I thought….”

“Such things can carry off wizards, but it is rare,” Malfoy said. “And a ‘digestive ailment’ could easily be poison. It’s well known that Snape is a master of potions.”

“This sounds highly speculative to me, with all due respect, your lordship. Who sent this letter?”

Malfoy leaned in, grinning. “It is someone who has provided useful intelligence in the past to my family. A spy by the code name of Wormtail.”

“What is his real name?”

“I do not know, but his record speaks for itself. The Malfoys trust him. He claims to have witnessed Snape making a poison just days before Morfin Gaunt’s sudden death.”

 _“Witnessed?”_ Lestrange breathed.

“So he says. I have tried to find out which of the old Gaunt vassals were still in service at the time Lord Morfin died, but as you know, _they_ have those records now. I have only hearsay to go on… but I think this source is either a vassal who was a rival of Snape’s, or perhaps a servant who was summarily dismissed after Lady Riddle assumed the title.”

“So you think, because of this information, that Snape….”

“Since Carrow found that young Lord Thomas was innocent, I think it must have been Snape who killed Scabior. He may even have acted alone, without Lady Riddle’s knowledge. He certainly did in murdering his lord three years ago.” The corners of his mouth tugged upward maliciously. “I think we should reveal this and accuse him of treason.”

For a second, Lestrange wanted to shout his gleeful agreement. Then reason took over. “I must respectfully disagree, my lord,” he said in regret. “If we did, they would deny it. If there is nothing implicating Lady Riddle herself, it would go nowhere. A letter sent by an anonymous source—a letter with no Veracity Charm upon it—wouldn’t be reliable in many people’s eyes.”

Malfoy glowered. “My word is law now. They should believe what I say.”

“Perhaps so, my lord,” Lestrange said reflexively, “but even if they do, let’s be honest, my lord, Morfin Gaunt was loathed. There are few who would care if Snape _did_ murder him. Perhaps it’s better to keep it in reserve as blackmail.”

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to argue more, but he changed his mind and nodded curtly. As Lestrange sipped the rest of his wine, he wondered if this was the sort of thing that had driven Abraxas Malfoy to act against his own father. _It does not make it right,_ he thought. _Malfoy is an aged wizard. He should have an advisor… one who does not abuse his position as Abraxas did. I am that person now._

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Merope was furious. When Tom had first written to her about what had befallen him at Hogwarts—and what he realized, as she also did, _could_ have happened if Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange had been a bit more lawless—she had immediately sent an angry letter to Malfoy. As far as Merope was concerned, this crossed a line. Bellatrix Lestrange’s assassination attempt on Hermione a couple of years ago had also crossed a line, but unlike that, Carrow had tortured Tom openly and with the full knowledge of his lord. They were getting much bolder.

And _now_ the evil old man had sent her a purse of gold—from Carrow’s estate, he said, in a letter that was grotesquely insincere in its apology. As if shedding her son’s blood could be paid off with fifty Galleons! It was an insult. He even had the cheek to say that Albus Dumbledore had suggested this remedy. What of the outrageous “tax assessment” that he wanted to conduct this summer in preparation to rob her of her land and castle?

As she attempted to calm herself, Severus was standing before her with quite a report to give from his sources’ information, and all of the report had to do with the continuing consequences of Scabior’s murder. This was important, she told herself. She needed to hear this. There would be time enough to fume about Malfoy’s latest insult.

Merope sipped a goblet of wine and took several deep breaths to compose herself, then turned to Severus. “I am ready to hear it,” she said, attempting to sound calm.

Severus looked down at the parchment he held in hand. His brow furrowed in a wince, but only for a moment. He took a deep breath of his own before beginning.

“The source for this is… highly-placed,” he began hesitantly.

Merope gave him a wry smile. “It’s a house-elf for the Malfoys, isn’t it?”

Severus was startled. He gaped at her. “My lady, how—”

“Severus, some of the information you have given me over the past three years could only have been overheard by someone who was physically there. You told me about the Blacks… but they were not always present. You also have said ‘little sources’ on several occasions.”

Severus heaved his breath. “Well, my lady, you are very astute. Of course….”

“I certainly would not tell that to anyone, even my son. Such a source is extremely vulnerable, given the nature of elves’ binding to their masters. Malfoy could simply order the elf to come to him, and he _could not_ escape. I understand the sensitivity.”

“Naturally so,” Severus said hurriedly. “Well… my source tells me that this is going to be public soon enough, so we merely have to keep silent until that time. Essentially… there have been some major changes in the households of our adversaries. Our declared enemies, in the case of the Lestranges.”

Merope’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? In what respect?”

“The Lestranges are going to be divided, for one,” he said. “Lord Lestrange is going to attend Armand Malfoy. It’s an, er, _imported_ custom for nobles to wait on higher-ranked nobles or royalty.”

Merope scoffed and smirked lightly. “Yes. I thought that Carrow had that wretched job… was he dismissed?”

“From that task, yes. He went to Malfoy to tell him that he did not want to do the tax assessment of this property this summer—yes, he _was_ the one chosen to do it—”

“Typical,” Merope said with contempt. “Every opportunity they have to insult this family, they take it.” She glared at the gold coins that Malfoy had sent with the post.

“So it seems,” he agreed. “But Carrow’s interaction with your son must have frightened him, I assume because he found your son to be innocent. According to my source, he expressed fear to Malfoy that he would be killed on the spot if he showed up.”

“If it were up to Tom, I have no doubt that he would be.” A shadow came over her face for a moment. “Will the assessment take place, then?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. It depends on whether he can find someone else to do it.”

She nodded. “Please continue.”

“Malfoy did not like what he perceived as Carrow’s cowardice, and his punishment was to dismiss him from his household, summon Lestrange to take his place, and send Carrow to wait on Lady Lestrange and her daughter.”

Merope chuckled. “So he took Lestrange away from his own castle! Lady Lestrange rules in his name now, then?”

“Evidently so.”

“Given what my son wrote to me about the _real_ reason Scabior was murdered, that’s interesting indeed. I wonder what they are going to do now that they have apparently run out of suspects?”

Severus winced, and Merope noticed. “What is it, Severus? Have they accused me?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, they think I was the killer. And they….” He trailed off, wincing, closing his eyes momentarily.

“Severus, I insist that you tell me what is troubling you.”

He sighed, closing his eyes again. “As you command, my lady.” He took a deep breath. “The implications of this intelligence are very disturbing, but I fear you will not like what I’m about to tell you. I will suffer any punishment you decide to mete out.”

Merope suddenly wished she had not asked. “Go ahead, then,” she said nervously.

“There was a spy who… witnessed me making a potion just before the death of your brother, Lord Morfin,” Severus said, looking away.

Merope’s eyes widened as she took in the implication. “Severus….”

“It implies exactly what you think it does, my lady,” he said stoically. Seized by a sudden impulse, he got up from his chair and knelt before her. “I did it because your late brother was destroying the fief. His conduct had already driven off most of the family vassals, and he was ordering me to spy on you in London with the goal of forcibly bringing you here—for him.”

“Severus—”

“It was a loathsome, evil command, and I could not obey it. My oath was to your _family,_ and his conduct was harming it. You still lived, and I decided that it would be far better if _you….”_

“Severus,” she said again, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I understand. I really do. I admit, if I had learned this three years ago, I would have been highly suspicious of you as a vassal, but you have proven your loyalty to me and my family—to Tom and Hermione—repeatedly since then. As for my late brother, I do not doubt for a second that he had such foul designs. Do you know why I eloped with Sir Thomas in the first place?”

He demurred. “I never considered it my business….”

“You must have suspected,” she pressed. “But, yes, I did it to avoid that fate. My father had that very plan… so eloping was my only chance. I believe you, and I forgive you.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers, almost afraid to look, but there was no anger or betrayal in them. “Thank you… Merope,” he finally said.

She smiled. “Now, get off the floor and take your seat again. As you said, the fact that anyone was a witness to that is very disturbing. Did your source say who it was? I presume it was not Carrow himself.”

“No, it was some spy with the code name of Wormtail. Even Armand Malfoy apparently did not know who that was, though, just that he had helped them before and that was why they trusted him.” He sighed. “That was three years ago, though. The castle is utterly secure now.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. “Thank you for telling me all this, Severus. Is there anything else I should know before I write to Malfoy?”

“No, my lady, that was the whole report. Is your letter going to be about that bag of gold, then?”

She shook her head as she smoothed out a sheet of paper. “It is an insult, but I will not call it such. I can smile just as falsely as any of them,” she said grimly. “Obviously I cannot make reference to anything that has not been made public yet, but I don’t have to. I am going to inform him that the offenses against this family are far greater than a mere fifty Galleons could cover, and that in consideration of that, I will consider any ‘back tax’ I supposedly owe to have been taken out of the payment before he sent it. They have been targeting my family, and I have had enough.”

* * *

_Castle Black in the North, two months later._

Regulus and Andromeda Black listened intently as Regulus’s parents and paternal grandfather spoke. The grim, dark, cold fortress was very unlike Regulus’s home, Canis Manor, in the south of England. It was chilly here even in late spring, so much so that Arcturus, Orion, and Walburga wore fur-lined robes. Regulus and Andromeda donned even heavier ones, unused as they were to this. The tall two-story windows in the grand hall of the castle seemed to make it even colder. Through those windows, in the distance a great magically charmed wall loomed over the landscape, protecting the castle and lands from the sinister forest that reputedly harbored giants and werewolves.

“Regulus,” Lord Arcturus began, his fur collar making him look majestic. Behind his high seat, a banner fluttered in the cool draft, bearing the crest of the Black family. To Regulus and Andromeda’s eyes, even the dogs on it looked more ferocious and wolfish than the ones that adorned the crest in their home, in keeping with everything else here. “I have summoned you and your lady here to warn you.”

“Warn us?” he repeated.

Arcturus nodded grimly. “I collaborated with Abraxas Malfoy to _attempt_ to keep his high lordship from doing destructive things. As you know, that attempt failed, and Abraxas is dead. I fear that I may be next. Lestrange wanted to remove all competition for his high lordship’s ear… and if he suspected Abraxas, I am sure he suspects me.”

“You are safe here, Father,” Orion assured him at once.

Arcturus raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps so—for now, at least. I just wanted to tell all of you, though, to be prepared and to know about this. If I die soon, it almost certainly will not be of natural causes.”

“Father! You aren’t about to die!”

“I hope not,” he agreed, “but if I do, I wanted to warn you now so that you won’t be fooled. Lestrange cannot be trusted, and I am not sure that his high lordship can either.”

“What about Bellatrix and Narcissa?” Andromeda spoke up. She had never much liked her older sister, and had not gotten along that well with her younger, but they _were_ her sisters.

“I think that Lestrange is at odds with Bellatrix,” Arcturus said. “Whether that means you can trust her, I do not know… and as for Narcissa, thus far, I think she _can_ be trusted. She and Lucius think they are next, frankly. They think Lestrange is going to do to Lucius what he did to Abraxas. Their view is that Lestrange ultimately means harm to Lord Malfoy himself, and that once he has removed everyone else, _he_ will seize power by acting as regent for Lady Adelaide and Lord Draco, who would then be ‘Lord Malfoy.’”

Regulus considered this. It did not square with what he was hearing from his elf source in Malfoy Manor. The conversations that Kreacher repeated to him from the Malfoys’ elf were indicative of utter sycophancy and hero-worship on Lestrange’s part. “What do you think about that, Grandfather?” he asked.

Arcturus sighed, his fur mantle sagging slightly as he did. “I do not know,” he admitted. “It makes sense, but Lestrange always showed immense respect to Lord Malfoy. For my part, though, I fear that something even worse may be afoot.”

The eyes of all four younger Blacks turned toward his face.

“So far, we have all kept out of the Muggle war, and it seems to be winding down at last—though who can say? We have thought that before, when in fact it was just a shift in fortunes from one pretender to the other,” he said. “They always seem to regroup. What I fear, though, is that Malfoy and Lestrange have made an alliance with one of them. Which one, I do not know.”

“What makes you think that?” Lady Walburga asked.

“There are reports of magic in a battle,” he said. “I cannot find out which side the apparent wizard was fighting for, but the reports are that someone used a visible curse. Needless to say, this is deeply disturbing. William the Conqueror came over and established his reign without wizard assistance. In fact, he did not want to think too much about the fact that there were witches and wizards in the world, and that is why he deferred all matters concerning magic to Armand Malfoy and then left well enough alone. He _owed_ Malfoy nothing, though. But if the ultimate winner of the Muggle war owes the throne to Lestrange and Malfoy, then they could get him—or her, if there is an alliance and it’s with Empress Matilda—to punish Lestrange’s enemies, and we would have no recourse. As it is now, we do have the option of appealing to the Muggle monarch if we are dissatisfied with Lord Malfoy’s decisions, even though no one has ever done so, for obvious reasons.”

Walburga muffled a snicker. In her opinion, those “obvious reasons” were that it was disgraceful for a pureblood wizard noble to beg a Muggle for favors, even if that Muggle wore a crown. In truth, the wizarding nobility had deemed it inadvisable to invite Muggle interference in their business.

“What do you think should be done about this?” Andromeda asked.

“I don’t know what _can_ be done about it,” he confessed. “I will try to get the truth about this report of magic, for one… find out if it really was, and if so, whom the wizard was fighting for, and whether it was an independent recruit or a formal alliance. I would say that perhaps it was a Mudblood who went for a soldier, but that seems too optimistic. How could such a one even know how to cast a spell? Unfortunately I do think it was a trained wizard, which indicates that someone who _knows_ he is a wizard has taken a side… but I will see what else I can discover. In the meantime, remember what I said. Beware of Lestrange, beware of Lord Malfoy, and stick together. We are all Blacks by both marriage and blood. Our heraldic animal is the dog, a loyal and intelligent creature that thrives in a pack. When a pack stays together, it survives.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom was reading a manuscript in the library, Hermione noticed as she entered the grand room. He lifted his gaze for a moment to sneer at her and then returned to his reading.

There was not a hint of affection in that look, and an unwanted, humiliating lump formed in Hermione’s throat at the sight of it. She suddenly realized that she could not remain in the library. Attempting to hold her head high and match his indifference, she found the book she was searching for, took it from its shelf, and stalked out of the room back to the dungeons.

As soon as she entered her bedroom, she collapsed on her bed, the book forgotten. Tears refused to form, though her face grew hot and the lump in her throat seemed to harden.

_He doesn’t even like me anymore. He blames me for his torture still._

Hermione blinked away tears and conjured herself a goblet of cold water, which she drank immediately. It soothed the sudden lump in her throat.

It had been a couple of weeks since her huge fight with Tom, and the pain had only barely subsided. She wished she had not made that statement at the very end—but at the same time, what else was she to do? Tom had been needlessly cruel, and she was tired of allowing him to hurt her with his cruel words. She also wished she had been a bit more compassionate to him over the torture that he had suffered just before the argument. In retrospect, she realized that her reaction had probably made things worse… but, again, what was she to do when he came to her full of blame for her? When she had written to Bellatrix Lestrange, the idea that it might hurt him was not even in her mind. She had never meant for such a thing to happen. Perhaps she _could_ have been a bit more careful—she had certainly realized _that_ after Adelaide spitefully spread the rumor around that she was making a potion to induce miscarriage—but when Tom came to her with anger and blame in his words, her natural instinct was to defend herself even if he _had_ suffered.

 _What is my life going to be like?_ she thought miserably. She did not _think_ that Tom really meant what he had implied, that he would ask his mother to break the contract between their families… but what if he did? What was her legal status as a witch? Would her parents still have the authority to negotiate a new betrothal for her—to someone she didn’t even know, almost certainly someone who could not do magic and probably would not understand about it? The idea was sickening… and as she reflected on the anti-“Mudblood” laws that Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange had enacted, she realized that her parents certainly would have such authority. The only nobles in the magical community who had ever stood up for her were the Riddles and Severus Snape… and, she supposed, the masters at Hogwarts, but after she was declared a master herself, they could not shield her from anything.

 _I will tell Lady Merope that we have consummated our relationship if Tom dares try it,_ Hermione resolved. _She must already suspect, based on what she asked me while we were still intimate, but I will tell her outright. I will also tell her that he considered me married to him by the ancient magical rite, that I have never betrayed him, and that if he wants out of the contract, it’s for no reason other than spite._

_And he may not have thought of this, but his mother, at least, must realize what Malfoy would do if we broke the betrothal immediately after I finished school. He would think we swore falsely from the start. He would consider us all oathbreakers and would retaliate against us. Lady Merope probably told Tom that she would end it if he wanted because otherwise he might never have softened to me. She has to know what the consequences would be if she actually did. I won’t let him do this to me._

Hermione sighed. She continued to clutch the pillow, well aware that she had just reasoned that a loveless political marriage would be acceptable as long as it was with Tom—but not choosing to dwell on the details.

* * *

_One month later._

It was summer again, and Tom and Hermione had been one day at Parselhall. Tom was still keeping to himself except during meals and occasions when they both happened to be in the same room. This was such a time, as the Riddles, Hermione, and Severus Snape awaited a guest in the great hall. Snape and Lady Merope seemed to know the identity of this person, but Tom and Hermione were to be surprised.

The person, whoever it was, was _not_ one of Tom’s friends. Hermione knew that they were coming at some point, but Tom would know if this person was one of them. She had overheard him asking his mother for permission to invite them again. It seemed that Wilkes was going to come toward the end of summer. The young wizard supposedly had something critically important that he wanted to tell Tom. Hermione rather dreaded it, because she was sure that she knew what it was about. Tom’s ambition of claiming the crown of England for himself, based on six-century-old lineage, and presumably using Slytherin’s monster to force his will, was what Tom discussed with his friends, she was sure.

 _Malfoy and Lestrange are out of control,_ she thought, _and they do need to be replaced, but Tom could have taken this ambition in a much more productive direction. He could stand up for reinstating the full Wizengamot, or replacing Malfoy with Lady Merope, or any number of possibilities. As it is, Tom would be injecting himself into the Muggle war with his current goal, and he would have to have Slytherin’s basilisk to stand a chance of achieving his ambition. What Muggle would support his claim on its own merits? That line hasn’t ruled any part of this country in centuries. And even with a basilisk, what are his chances, truly?_

Hermione did not like to think about that. Something did need to change—Malfoy did need to go, and Lestrange with him—but what Tom wanted to do seemed so dangerous. Hermione just wanted to have the sort of life she had thought she would as an almost-thirteen-year-old, when she had first met him. She could have that if Lady Merope replaced Malfoy. That was what Hermione wanted to happen. But no one else seemed to want it, including Lady Merope herself. In fact, Lady Merope seemed strained as she attempted to maintain her own personal status quo.

Hermione glanced at the others. Tom was attempting to make himself look bored, but he was not succeeding. Lady Merope presided in the high seat, attempting to make _her_ self look serene, but also not succeeding. She was nervous and eager in turns—and Severus Snape was anxious indeed. Hermione wondered who the guest was that Snape would be nervous about meeting him… or her.

On the other side of the doors to the great hall, a distinctive pop of Apparition sounded. The house-elves were waiting for the guest to appear. In a minute, the doors creaked open, and the elves eagerly led a wizard robed in black across the grand room toward the high seat. Hermione examined the man as he approached. He was moderately handsome, about the age of Severus—or perhaps a few years younger—and with very dark hair. She was quite sure that she had never seen him before, and she did not recognize his resemblance in anyone she did know.

“Lord Regulus Black of Canis Manor, heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Black,” declared one of the elves.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She noticed that Tom’s did as well, but only for a moment. His eyebrows instantly narrowed in suspicion as Black reached them and bowed.

The four rose and welcomed him. “My lord,” Merope said feelingly. “You are most welcome.”

Black smiled, but it did not last. “Thank you, my lady Riddle. You are gracious.”

“Let us discuss this in a private sitting room,” Merope said. She descended from the seat, Tom, Hermione, and Snape following. She led the way to a small parlor that Hermione was quite familiar with, opening the door to let them all enter.

Once they were seated and the door sealed tightly—Snape cast several spells, Hermione noted with interest—Merope spoke again.

“My lord Regulus, you do our house honor by coming. It is courageous of you to do this at such a time.”

“Thank you,” he said again, “but it is at times like this when I think it’s most crucial to make a stand, my lady.”

Tom gazed curiously at the wizard. So did Hermione. Was Regulus about to swear an alliance on behalf of his family? That _was_ important….

“As you know, my lord grandfather Arcturus no longer has a seat on the Wizards’ Council… because the Wizards’ Council no longer exists,” he said dryly. “This fact changes a lot of things. But before I continue, I must ask that the young people swear not to reveal what they are about to hear to anyone outside this room, if you please, your ladyship?” He seemed uncertain at the end, asking permission—which made sense, as Tom was her son and Hermione her ward.

Merope looked startled for a moment, but she nodded her consent. “As long as it is not the Unbreakable Vow. That’s not to say that I discount the risks you take, Lord Regulus, but Tom is my only heir, and Hermione is to marry him. I’m sure you understand…?”

“I do. All oaths have consequences to one’s magic or one’s well-being if broken, after all….” He trailed off awkwardly.

“And frankly, it is not in their interest to tell others about you,” Snape put in. He turned to Tom and Hermione with eyebrows raised.

Merope spoke up. “If either of you do not wish to hear this, you may leave, of course.”

Hermione shook her head, followed swiftly by Tom. “I wish to hear,” she said. She raised her hand, holding her wand. “And I swear I will speak of what I am about to hear to no one except those in this room.” The tip of her wand flared briefly.

“I swear this as well,” Tom chimed in, holding his wand aloft as it gleamed.

Regulus nodded. “I accept your oaths.” He twined his fingers together and stretched his arms in front of him. “Very well. First of all… I have been telling information to Severus. For a long time, this included privileged information from the Wizards’ Council itself and its members.”

Tom did not seem wholly surprised by this, Hermione noted.

“Even though my grandfather is no longer on the Council, and Rodolphus Lestrange appears to have Lord Malfoy’s ear exclusively, I mean to continue in this role,” Regulus continued. “But… I am also here to offer my wand if it… should come to blows, as I fear it will. Malfoy has been very aggressive against your family, as you of course know far better than I. And my grandfather, frankly, believes that Lestrange will have him killed at some point, now that he has manipulated Lord Malfoy into killing his own son. I hope my grandfather is wrong, but he is a wise man—yes, Lord Thomas, he is, even if you disagree with some of his views”—Hermione noticed that Tom was scowling scornfully at this—“and I fear that he may be correct. I do not yet know what my parents think of your family, so I am making this offer only on behalf of my own family, and it must be secret for the time being. If I need to make it public, that will release you from your oaths of silence.”

Merope spoke up. “I understand the danger in which you have placed yourself, Lord Regulus,” she said, “and your gesture does not go unfelt. It is a great honor to have the support of anyone from the House of Black, an ancient English wizarding family.”

“The time is swiftly coming for all witches and wizards who value our way of life to support each other,” Regulus said. “When my lady wife and I visited my grandfather in the North recently, he offered a very disturbing theory.”

“And what might that be?”

“He thinks that Malfoy and Lestrange might have made a formal alliance with one of the Muggle pretenders to the throne. Apparently he heard that magic had been sighted in one of the Muggle skirmishes. I need not say,” he said dryly as everyone in the room, including Hermione, gasped, “that this possibility, if true, poses a grave risk to us.”

“I did not know this,” Snape admitted. “You said nothing of it.”

Regulus gave him a dark smile. “I decided it was better to say in person, so that everyone could hear it directly from me.”

“That is terrible,” Tom declared, as all heads turned in his direction. His face was stormy, his eyebrows narrowed in anger at the very idea. “The Muggle pretender Stephen has offered the church everything it wants, and anyone who thinks _they_ would not try to poke their fingers into wizarding business is fooling himself.”

“Tom,” Merope said gently, “mind your tone, please.”

“He’s right, though, my lady,” Regulus said, his voice grim. “It’s one thing to live a virtuous life and honor one’s God, but there are those who regard magic itself as evil… and of course, the only way that witches such as your ladyship can retain your position is if Muggle power over our culture is kept to a minimum.” He considered. “I was thinking more along the lines of the winner of the Muggle crown being beholden to Malfoy and Lestrange, and therefore aiding their bloody vengeance against all their enemies, but your son is right as well.”

“He is a profligate spender, a blight on the national treasury, and his noble supporters back him in part because his cousin is a woman,” Snape added. “They have no reason to object to anything that Malfoy and Lestrange would get him to do, if there really is an alliance and it’s with him.”

“And the Muggle ‘Empress’ Matilda is little better, if she’s the one they are backing,” Tom sneered, on a roll now, his words heated. “She’s a foreigner with foreign ties and foreign ways. We don’t need any more of _that_ in this country.”

“Tom,” Merope began, her tone sharp.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he said at once, but to Hermione’s ears it sounded insincere. He turned to Regulus. “I apologize, my lord.”

Regulus nodded. Then—to Hermione’s shock—he turned to her. “What do _you_ think, Lady Hermione? Your parents are Muggle nobles. Do they have a preference?”

Hermione was startled. “No, Lord Regulus, they have always been neutral in the conflict, preferring to maintain what they have rather than risk backing the wrong person. They have wanted to keep the peace, always, valuing that above other considerations.”

Regulus nodded again. “That’s good to hear. Always better for there to be no complications.” He smiled darkly. “That said, Lady Merope, I am afraid that your son is correct. Both of these Muggle pretenders are… compromised… and Lord Thomas, I would like to remind you that the Empress has also made offers to the church to solicit their support. It’s just for the best if wizards stay out of a Muggle conflict entirely, and it troubles me deeply that it may be too late for that.”

“What can we do, in your view?” Merope asked.

He sighed. “My grandfather is trying to get to the bottom of the rumor about magic in a Muggle battle. It may be that we’re worrying about nothing, and I hope that is the case. But if we are not, then we will have to consider intervening as well to… _eliminate…_ those who are most deeply involved.”

 _So it may come to war after all,_ Hermione thought unhappily. She spared a glance at Tom, whose dark eyes were gleaming with a disturbing light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, wizards and witches are in a state of semi-Seclusion already, because of the reasons detailed in Regulus’s discussion. The Muggle civil war of 1139-1147 (called “the Anarchy” in newer histories) is relevant to the plot—and that’s all I’m comfortable saying right now—but I’m not going to have retellings of real-world battles or political events from the war. I’m not a historian and I’m sure I’d screw it up. Although the Muggle situation does have some linkage to wizarding problems, the wizarding community has its own conflicts, and they are what this story is about.


	30. Revelations of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm posting this chapter a bit early because of the holidays; I am afraid we are not returning to a regular Friday schedule for this story. I also apologize for the cliffhangers, but only a little bit. ;) Thank you so much for all that you do to support this fic! It keeps me motivated to work on it.

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Rodolphus Lestrange glared furiously at the wizard who cowered before him. Although he was still a fairly young man, his face was covered in dark pockets and scars.

“It’s because I took a false oath,” he whimpered. “My own magic is revolting against me for it.”

Lestrange sneered disdainfully. “If it were that simple, oathbreakers could be readily identified by sight. It looks very much to me as if you are in need of a health potion.”

The other wizard shook his head. “It’s a curse. I know it is. Please, Lord Lestrange, I cannot let this happen to my son. He is about to speak, but I yet have time to change my mind.”

“Your son will be unaffected as long as you have not told him about our agreement.” Lestrange rose from his chair. “Your part in this is crucial. You have picked the winning side, but I will only reward loyalty, not cowardice. We have been thwarted, and now I believe that Severus Snape has murdered one of my most loyal vassals. He’s beyond the reach of justice as long as Merope Riddle rules the barony of Hangleton. I insist that you go through with this, Wilkes.”

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

After Regulus Black’s visit, Hermione very much wanted to write to her friends about the development, but she had sworn a magical oath not to speak of it. If they learned, it would have to be through Regulus’s brother, Sirius, who lived with Harry’s parents. That seemed unlikely; Sirius was not treated as one of the family anymore. However, there was nothing that Hermione could do about it—other than break her word. It was frustrating, but she had to keep this secret. Regulus’s life might depend on it. His usefulness as a source of information certainly did.

Fortunately for her, she did have communications from Luna and Ginevra— _Ginny,_ she thought with a smile at the nickname—about other, highly interesting subjects. Within a month of her arrival, Luna sent her a barn owl bearing a letter. The owl remained perched on the diamond-paned window of Hermione’s room. Crookshanks stared back at it in a territorial way, as if to say, _“This is my space, and any prey here belong to me.”_

“Sorry, owl, but there are no rodents in this castle,” she muttered as she popped the seal on the letter—a seal bearing the imprint of an eagle, since Luna’s family were distantly related to Rowena Ravenclaw. A few years ago, she would have felt a fool for talking to an animal in a serious manner, but magical creatures and letter-carrying owls were different. The barn owl understood, spread its wings, and soared through the open casement down to the ground to find prey as Hermione read her letter.

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_This has been an interesting summer. For one, I have been away from Lovegood Tower quite a lot. Harry invited me to Godric’s Hollow to meet his parents and godfather, and naturally I accepted. They offered for Harry to share his godfather’s room and me to have his bed, but I did not want to inconvenience them. I have been returning home at night, with the Apparition assistance of Harry’s mother. She never went to Hogwarts, but then you know that. It’s a pity and a great wrong. She learned how to Apparate from Harry’s father and godfather. I can’t wait to learn how to do it myself, either next year or the one after that._

 

Hermione felt an inexplicable pang at the idea of Harry’s inviting Luna to meet his family. Since they did not live in the same village, that was a serious step, even for a witch and wizard who could travel magically. _This is nothing to me,_ she told herself. _Harry might have fancied me at the very beginning, but he knew better than to seriously consider someone who had a title and was promised to another boy, especially after Tom and I became so close._ A hard lump formed in her throat at those memories. _Harry has some Gryffindor qualities in him and might have considered a romantic “rescue” if Tom and I had never had those moments, if we visibly cared nothing about each other, but we did. I can hardly blame Harry for turning his eyes to a witch who was actually available, and I am glad that he is happy and does not have to think about the stress and troubles of playing the romantic hero in an unhappy noble betrothal._ Finding some odd, twisted comfort in this morose thinking, she continued reading the letter.

 

_Harry’s godfather Sirius is meeting a witch, though! Her name is Marlene Valant and they say—Harry’s father and godfather, that is—that she was at Hogwarts with them. She used to be McKinnon, from Hogsmeade in Scotland, but she married a Muggle. She is a widow now, though, after her husband fell in service to the Empress Matilda a year ago, and she hates hearing of the Muggle conflict as a result. After he died, she moved to Godric’s Hollow. She has a one-year-old daughter. Harry’s father seems oddly ambivalent about the relationship. I don’t know why. She is very nice and Sirius seems happy. One would think he would want Sirius to have a household of his own._

_Sirius also spends time with a friend of his and Harry’s father’s who lives in an isolated cabin in the forest. This wizard is a werewolf, so naturally he does not reside in the village itself, but I have met him. The full moon comes only once every lunar cycle, after all, and he is safe at all other times._

_Harry’s father—and mother, to an extent—correspond frequently with the Weasleys, the Longbottoms, as well as with High Master Dumbledore occasionally, I think. I don’t know, but I have seen the seal of Hogwarts on one of their letters. They never talk about anything from those letters, though. Of late, even Sirius and his werewolf friend have seemed a bit put out about it, almost as if the Potters, Weasleys, Longbottoms, and Dumbledore are keeping them in the dark on purpose. I have written to Ginny, who tells me that the older members of her family are definitely keeping something secret from her, her brother Ronald, and the twins. It is all very suspicious and I think it must relate to… well, I won’t say, but you know. Harry agrees with me. Unfortunately we have made no progress toward discovering what our families may be doing. It was dreadful to hear that Lord Thomas was tortured at Hogwarts and it does seem as though war is inevitable someday, so I think our elders should tell us what they are up to. We’re not children anymore._

_Yours,_

_Luna L._

 

Hermione considered the rest of this letter. It was quite interesting that the letters were flying so fast among the Friends of the Founders, and it was even more curious that they were not telling their children what was being discussed. Could it be that they did not quite trust their children’s discretion—or did they fear truth serum if any of Malfoy or Lestrange’s people decided to “question” pupils at Hogwarts about their parents’ doings? Given what had happened to Tom, perhaps it was not an unreasonable fear… but then, what _were_ the parents’ doings? Hermione understood why they might want to keep their children unaware, but that did not provide any resolution as to what they were planning.

As for Sirius Black’s relationship, Hermione thought little about it. James Potter had lived with his best friend for years. Sirius had gotten himself disowned by his family for his associations. Of course Potter was jealous of any other claim on his friend, especially one that might take him out of the Potter household permanently. Luna and Harry were just used to seeing suspicious behavior, so they probably saw it where it did not truly exist.

Hermione composed a reply to Luna, folded it once the ink had dried, and left it under a pile of books. She would send it once she had considered it further—and once Luna’s owl returned from its feast. There were no vermin in the castle; Severus and Merope’s wards—and, in the summer and early winter, the prowlings of Crookshanks—had made quite sure of that after the appearance of rat damage a couple of years ago. The owl would have to fend for itself here.

Hermione left her room and headed down to the ground floor, passing Tom on the stone stairs as she did. He met her eyes briefly but said nothing. He was clutching a letter of his own, she noticed—but it was nothing to _her._ Let him have his secret correspondence with his friends! She knew a couple of them were coming to visit later, anyway. If he told tales about her to them, it was nothing she had not experienced before, she thought unhappily. That, after all, was how their separation had begun in the first place. He could complain about her all he liked. She was _not_ going to let him put her aside. If she had to live the life of a noble in an unhappy match, then by God, so would the person responsible for it.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

“Arcturus Black was a part of it, I’ve no doubt,” Rodolphus Lestrange said to Armand Malfoy as they munched on food halfheartedly in a side parlor.

Malfoy nodded. “It is possible he was even the instigator. It is a great pity that Abraxas got embroiled in treason, but Black was probably the one who started it.”

Lestrange was less convinced of that. In his view, Abraxas Malfoy was more likely to have been the originator, since his father’s death would have meant that _he_ would have become the high lord of all wizards in Britain. But it was also possible that he and Black egged each other on. Lestrange himself had not always wanted to take measures as extreme as Lord Malfoy did, but from the very beginning, Black and Abraxas Malfoy had been a team of negativity—a pair of doubters, casting cold water upon every suggestion that would have shown strength over the blood-traitors that troubled them. _“If we do this, there will be revolt.” “Our power is limited.” “The castle is impregnable.”_ Doubt after doubt after doubt, Lestrange thought—and what had it gotten them? The Riddle-Granger match looked very much as if it really would take place in a year or two, depending on how quickly the Mudblood completed her education—and her example would be an instigation for others. He and Lord Malfoy had created the new law banning any additional Mudbloods from Hogwarts after her, but it seemed like it might be too little, too late. There would be a fight over it unless they took care of the problem quickly.

Black would not even support having Lady Riddle marry Caractacus Burke anymore, Lestrange thought. _His_ intentions for the marriage, and Lord Malfoy’s, were quite different to Black’s and Abraxas’s, which had centered on putting a pureblood ally in charge of a magical fortress and potentially having an infant Burke who was pureblood and would therefore cut off the young half-blood rebel from inheriting. Lestrange and Lord Malfoy now wanted the match to take place so that Burke could kill Lord Thomas and Lady Hermione. That would remove the threat permanently. They would not live in righteous indignation at having been deprived, which would be a motive for them to gather enemies of the regime under their banner. After the Scabior incident, Lestrange wanted them dead. Once Lady Riddle produced a healthy infant with Burke, the plan was for her to die too. Lestrange was finished with half-measures—but he was very sure that Black would not support this. Every time the subject of killing Riddle and Granger had arisen, he had shouted it down as a horrible idea. Lestrange also suspected that he had moral qualms about it, which just disgusted him; but the fact that the Riddle lady had only consolidated her power—making defense alliances with noble families, getting Severus Snape firmly on her side, accumulating wealth—had definitively proven Black wrong as to the strategy, Lestrange thought. _Well—one of those alliances is a trap, and it won’t be long now._

He returned his gaze to his lord. “That may be, your lordship,” he said. “Either way, they certainly conspired together. Just before Abraxas died, do you remember what he said? He was quite eager to protect Black. Of course they were both involved.” He sighed. “But what to do? Castle Black is as much of a magical fortress now as Castle Gaunt.” Lestrange refused to use the name “Parselhall.” “And I’m certain that they would not admit even your high lordship as a guest without searching you.”

Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “You are right, Rodolphus, but I have had another idea. You see, the Blacks seem to trust Lucius and Narcissa. I know this because Lucius idly mentioned that Narcissa’s aunt Walburga corresponded with her, mentioning that Narcissa’s father Cygnus would be moving out of his manor to Castle Draconis in Godric’s Hollow soon.”

“Cygnus’s wife is a Rosier,” Lestrange said. _“She_ can obviously be trusted, being of civilized stock, but what about him?”

“It says something that he is choosing to live with Lucius rather than Arcturus, does it not?”

Lestrange was confused, as he tried to wrap his mind around the tangle of loyalties. “Your lordship said that the Blacks trust Lucius and Narcissa. Should they not?”

Malfoy gazed past Lestrange wordlessly. “Lucius and Narcissa are deciding on their loyalties, I think,” he finally said. “I hope they choose _correctly_. And this brings me to my plan. With Cygnus in residence at Lucius’s castle, Arcturus Black will be even more inclined to trust them. I think that they would be willing to visit Lucius for a feast, and there is the opening.”

Lestrange was still confused. “I don’t understand, my lord,” he said respectfully. “Do you think that Black will visit Lucius if you are already known to be there? Because….” He trailed off.

Malfoy laughed evilly. “Oh, Rodolphus, that is not what I mean. You wouldn’t know, of course… but there is a secret entrance into the castle. It dates from before we Malfoys owned it, when it belonged to Gryffindor. I learned of it and used it to lead the surprise attack that resulted in his removal from the castle. The fool did not have any ward over it, relying strictly on secrecy… pity for him that he was betrayed.” Malfoy smirked. “There is a blood ward over this entrance now, of course, but as I am the one who cast it, it will allow any of Malfoy blood into the castle. I do not think Lucius knows about it.”

Lestrange’s eyes were wide as he took this in. “How did you learn of this, my lord? Did Gryffindor speak of it after he swore the oath to you?”

“No,” Malfoy replied, “he did not.” The tone of his voice indicated that the subject was closed. “Here is my plan, Rodolphus. It is the custom of the family to hold a leaving feast before Draco returns to Hogwarts. Your lady wife and daughter may be present; unfortunately I cannot spare you—”

“I am ever at your service,” Lestrange said. “And they wouldn’t trust me, anyway.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Malfoy agreed mercilessly. “On the day of the feast, before the guests arrive, I will sneak into the castle and dust the bed that will be Arcturus Black’s with poison. He will die in his sleep on the first night.”

Lestrange considered this. “A fine idea, my lord. Will it be identifiable as poison after they discover that he is dead? Or does it not matter to you?”

“Lucius does not know of the secret entrance, so I do not care. Let the Blacks think that Lucius poisoned him. Let Lucius and Narcissa wonder if there is treachery afoot in their own household. Anything to break the bond between the families, and bind Lucius firmly to our side, is something you should support—and sowing chaos and mistrust would do it.”

Lestrange smirked, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“Now, you have mentioned a plan to take care of the Riddle problem,” Malfoy continued. “How goes it?”

“It should bear fruit soon, my lord.”

“Good.”

* * *

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

It was the end of summer, and Draco, the pride of his parents, the future Lord Malfoy of Britain, was to return to Hogwarts soon. This grand feast was being held in his honor, he told himself as he surveyed the head table where his extended family sat. There were his parents, his Black grandparents, his aunts Bellatrix and Andromeda, his uncle Regulus, and Regulus’s grandfather, Lord Black. Adelaide was there too, though she looked none too happy to be there. She had been worse than usual since Christmas, Draco thought as he ate. He did not know why, what had occurred around Christmas to make her so wretchedly unpleasant—unless Granger’s assertion was actually true, which Draco could not quite rule out—but it was extremely hard on his nerves and had solidified his resolution of not marrying her. And who would gainsay it? He was the only possible Malfoy heir, unless his mother had another child—which surely she was too old to do now. She was almost forty! If he renounced his cousin and proposed to Astoria Greengrass, as he fully intended to do someday, he was quite sure he would have his way. He just had to tolerate Adelaide for a little while longer. Once he had finished Hogwarts and was declared a master of magic, he would do as he saw fit.

Uncle Regulus looked very nervous, Draco thought. He wondered why. Aunt Andromeda leaned in and whispered something in Regulus’s ear. She had apparently noticed Draco’s look, because as soon as she sat upright again, Regulus arranged his features into a look of forced calmness. Draco then shot a glance at Lord Black, who was eating little and seemed somehow ill… or perhaps tired. Why had he come if he was ill? It was true that as the patriarch of House Black, he always had attended this feast, but no one would have thought the worse of him if he stayed at home due to illness. _But then,_ Draco thought, _he didn’t look ill when he first arrived. It was only after he rested here for a bit. I hope he doesn’t spread a disease to all of us._

Aunt Bellatrix refilled her wine goblet for the second time. Draco looked down, scowling. She was a great witch, but her drinking habit often made her unpleasant to be around. Of course, a lot of the Blacks drank heavily… Draco hated to think it; that was his mother’s family, but so it was.

His father stood up to raise a toast to him—“the bright and glorious future of House Malfoy in this kingdom!”—and the guests joined in. Draco smirked to himself in pleasure.

* * *

That evening, Draco was disturbed from his sleep by the sounds of voices. Annoyance filled his mind as he awoke. There was a bit of light filtering through the glass, but not much; it was likely early dawn, and Draco was accustomed to sleeping in. Grumbling under his breath, he pulled a day robe on over his sleep robe and left his bedchamber, only to meet his Aunt Andromeda in the hallway. She cast him a darkly suspicious glance. Affronted, Draco sneered back at her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, not attempting to be very polite.

She eyed him. “It’s best if we all meet together to discuss it,” she snapped. “Come with me.”

Draco’s annoyance grew as he followed her downstairs into a parlor. He took a seat next to his parents, who were glaring across the parlor at their relatives. Draco did not know what had happened, but his instinct was to take his parents’ side in it. He scanned the room. His parents, his two aunts, Adelaide, Uncle Regulus, his Black grandparents… where was Lord Black?

He did not have to wait in suspense for long. His father spoke, giving a deeply suspicious look across the room. “My friends and family,” he began in grave tones, “I regret to inform you that his lordship, Arcturus Black, passed in his sleep last night.”

Regulus and Andromeda seemed to withdraw into themselves protectively. “He was well when we all arrived yesterday,” Regulus spoke up. “He only started to take ill after he arrived.”

“What, exactly, are you implying?” Bellatrix sneered.

Regulus eyed her. “I think the implications are clear, _sister._ No one in this castle is unaware of what happened to our host’s honored father.”

“You speak very boldly,” Bellatrix snapped. She went for her wand. “Are you suggesting that Lord Lucius _murdered_ your grandfather?”

Regulus did not reply, but merely gazed impassively at her. As he did, he wondered about Narcissa. What might _she_ know? According to information that he had received from Snape, Regulus was very likely gazing into the eyes of a killer who, rather than acknowledging and defending what was a perfectly defensible deed, instead was pleased to let her enemies take the blame for her own act. Had she had an accomplice in killing Scabior? _Was_ Narcissa to be trusted? She was a Black by birth, but she had married a Malfoy… but, at the same time, a Malfoy who had believed himself to be a target of Rodolphus Lestrange’s scheming. Who could be trusted? Regulus shifted his gaze and locked eyes with his uncle Cygnus, who looked genuinely stunned at the turn of events—stunned and angry.

“The sheets on his bed were found to be dusted with poison,” Cygnus said tightly. “Explain that, if you can, Lucius.”

Regulus and Andromeda gasped. As the shock subsided, their eyebrows narrowed in fury. Regulus reached for his wand.

“I had no idea!” Lucius exclaimed. His eyes were wide, either in surprise or a very good mimicry of it. “I would never poison a guest, least of all family!”

Cygnus gazed from his middle daughter to his eldest and youngest, studying their faces, trying to come to a decision. He winced, closing his eyes tightly for a moment. Druella, his wife, scowled, seemingly taking the side of her favorite child Bellatrix, but she had been raised according to Norman customs and did not contradict her husband in public.

Regulus and Andromeda exchanged a quick look. Although their marriage had been contracted for politics, and it had never kindled into romantic love, they had become friends and allies, and a kind of understanding had arisen between them about certain matters. They were, after all, both Blacks, but they also were independent thinkers. They understood each other… very well indeed.

In the next moment, they rose from their seats. Uneasily, Cygnus followed, his decision apparently made. Druella glowered but rose reluctantly. “Someone in this room betrayed and murdered my grandfather,” Regulus said severely. He eyed Bellatrix, then turned to Lucius and Narcissa. “He anticipated that this might happen after the death of his good friend Abraxas Malfoy. Given the close ties of kinship that we all have, this is worse than a mere disgrace. My wife and father-in-law and I will leave now, and we shall not return until we can be certain that we are not walking into a den of treacherous kinslayers.”

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

“This is grim news,” Severus said, spreading the letter from Regulus in front of Merope, Tom, and Hermione on the table. “Lord Arcturus Black is dead at Lucius Malfoy’s castle in Godric’s Hollow—killed by poison-dusted bed sheets.”

“They got him,” Tom muttered. “Malfoy and Lestrange. Does it mean that Lucius Malfoy has taken their side now?”

“Not necessarily. It could have been Lucius, but also present were Lady Lestrange, Lord Cygnus Black, and his wife Lady Druella. She was a Rosier, so….”

“So she’s another treacherous Norman,” Tom said venomously.

“I would not have put it exactly that way,” Severus muttered. He eyed Tom. “Her family is certainly allied with the Lestranges and Armand Malfoy, though.”

“Why would Lord Cygnus betray one of his own family? Or, for that matter, Lady Lestrange? She is at odds with her own husband and probably killed his vassal.” Tom considered something. “Have you told that to Lord Regulus?”

“I have,” he said, “and that is why he is not sure about what side she is truly on. As for Lord Cygnus, he’s an odd one. He has lived as a comparative hermit, in a manor on the eastern shore.”

“The story has always been that it’s because he is from the cadet branch of the family, since he is the son of Arcturus’s late cousin Pollux, and he was just pleased to negotiate a marriage for his middle daughter with her cousin Regulus, the heir. But envy can be a powerful motivator to betray one’s kin,” Merope said. “I am not accusing him, of course, but it could be.”

“That just makes Regulus’s father ‘Lord Black’ now, though,” Tom objected, “not Cygnus.”

“Spite is powerful, even if one doesn’t get anything out of it,” Hermione muttered sadly. Tom shot her a curious look, but she did not elaborate further.

“No one is claiming credit for the poisoning,” Severus said. “That means that either it was an independent act, and not at the behest of Lord Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange, who would pardon it if it had been—or that no one present at that feast actually did it. Though how that could be, they don’t know. They are going to examine the castle thoroughly for weaknesses. In the meantime, Lucius and Narcissa suspect they have been betrayed—or at least, they give the strong impression of it—and Regulus and Andromeda don’t trust any of the others now. Cygnus was going to live with the Malfoys, but he changed his mind, supposedly—but he won’t move into Castle Black or Regulus’s home Canis Manor either.”

“So even if Malfoy didn’t use any of the guests to do this, he and Lestrange managed to foment division,” Tom said.

Severus nodded.

“Do you think…” Hermione hesitated. “What about one of Lord Lucius’s house-elves? Could Lord Malfoy have ordered them to do it?”

“Only if Lucius has any that belong to the Malfoy family as a whole, rather than his own household. But it’s a good idea,” Severus said, somewhat grudgingly, “and I will mention it to Regulus.”

This seemed to mark the end of that unpleasant topic, for there was a pause, and then Merope spoke up with a different subject. “I understand that your friend Rob Wilkes is coming today, Tom,” she said.

Tom nodded, his dark eyes eager. “I look forward to his visit.”

Hermione cast her eyes down at her plate in irritation. Every day that Tom spent time with one of these boys was a day that she felt obliged to avoid him. It really did seem that her future would not be that of the beloved equal and co-conspirator that she had thought it would be during her first Hogwarts year and half of her second, but rather, the sadly more typical fixture in a castle who had no part in her husband’s doings. It was a wretched idea.

* * *

When Rob Wilkes arrived at the castle, Hermione greeted him properly, but then turned aside with her nose in the air, sauntering off with Crookshanks at her feet toward the library. Tom shook his head and headed out the doors toward the grounds, his friend hurrying to keep up with him.

“I heard that you had important news for me,” Tom said in a low voice as soon as they were alone.

Wilkes nodded, glancing around. “Yes, Tom—my lord—I mean, your highness.”

Tom smirked. “What is it, then?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s two things. The first one has to do with Caractacus Burke, the former shopkeeper.”

“The one who was given a Black family manor at the same time my mother was confirmed in her title? That one?”

“The very one.” Wilkes’s eyes gleamed. “I heard this from my father. Burke had dealings with your lady mother before you were born, and he….”

Tom stopped cold. “Did that foul lowborn English blood-traitor hurt my mother?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

“Not to Father’s knowledge, but he did cheat her. She had an item… something that supposedly had belonged to Slytherin himself, something that opened only by Parseltongue and supposedly contained a map to… _you know,”_ he said pointedly.

Tom’s eyes widened. “A map to Slytherin’s secret chamber? And Burke stole it?”

“He took advantage of your mother’s desperation to give her a very low amount of money for it,” Wilkes said.

Tom gripped his wand. “That filthy bastard—how _dare_ he—and now he cowers behind the Blacks. We shouldn’t have anything to do with them!”

“I’m sorry, your highness? What do you mean?”

Tom realized his mistake and tried to recover. “There are some who think the Blacks aren’t as much our enemies as the Malfoys and the other filthy Normans,” he said. “If they have been sheltering Burke, a mere shopkeeper squatting in a manor house, after something like that, then it just shows that they are out for themselves alone. An artifact of Slytherin! It belongs to _my_ family. My mother and I are the only people alive who have that blood, and some utter nobody holds onto it, an item he cannot even open! What sort of thing is it?” he asked, his tone more reasonable.

“My father says it’s either a jewel box or a locket of some sort.”

“As soon as I can,” Tom resolved, “I am going to go to that house and confront him over it. How dare he cheat my mother and then keep what belongs to us! And it contains a map to the Chamber….”

“That’s what my father heard,” Wilkes said hurriedly. “It may not be right.”

“Slytherin kept the information somewhere,” Tom declared. “It is as good a possibility as any. As soon as I can, I’m going to pay Burke a little visit.”

After this effusive reaction, Wilkes was reluctant to tell the rest of his news to Tom, for fear of what kind of explosion it might produce. But his father had assured him that he had wanted to find out all that he could about the Riddle family after swearing an alliance with Tom’s mother—the more they knew, the more they could help their new allies, the wizard had assured his son—and this next was an interesting, and outrageous, bit of information indeed.

“There is something else I have to tell you,” he said hesitantly. “It has to do with your father.”

Tom stopped cold. “My father? My _Muggle_ father? What about him?” He eyed his friend. “You knew I was a half-blood. I hope this isn’t suddenly a problem.” His tone made it clear that it had better not be a problem.

“Oh no, it’s nothing to do with that… sire,” he said. “It’s just… I’m sorry to tell you that your lady mother lied to you when she said that he died.”

Tom gripped his wand, unsure whether to be angry that his friend had called his mother a liar or inclined to believe what he said. “What?”

“I don’t know if your lady mother realizes this, but your father is actually still alive. He got married again, to a Muggle woman, and lives in a barony not too far away.”

“So he… abandoned my mother? He abandoned _me?”_

Wilkes looked down. “My lord, he’s a Muggle. What did you expect?”

Tom’s breath was heaving in fury. “Clearly, I should have looked to the past to know what to expect. King Arthur betrayed his wizard son, my ancestor, and turned to a Muggle woman, after all. That is what I should have _expected_. I just amended my plans, Wilkes. Burke can wait.  My _father_ and I need to have a little talk.”


	31. The Fallen Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! Here's a very important chapter, for two main reasons.
> 
>  **Warning:** This chapter contains a depiction of domestic violence as well as some other possibly disturbing content.

Hermione took up her quill and sighed heavily. Tom was still off somewhere with Wilkes, and as much as she valued her correspondence with Luna, it did not offer the sort of advice that she really craved right now. Luna—and, for that matter, Ginny—had not been raised as she had. They had never experienced the specific variety of problem that she currently was. They… she sighed again… had the freedom to choose as they pleased for their spouse, if they even wanted to marry at all.

Hermione could not even ask Merope for advice, because although she _had_ been raised noble, Hermione was not sure if she had been betrothed to anyone—though whether she had or not, she had taken matters into her own hands. And, more pertinently, Merope was the mother of the person about whom Hermione wanted advice. It would not do at all. However, there _was_ someone else that Hermione could write, and she was surprised at herself for not thinking of it before.

 _I have not lived with them in three years,_ she thought as she began to compose her letter, _and perhaps it is that. But my mother experienced this. My grandfather offered my father and uncle for her and her sister, and my other grandfather agreed to it because it was such a good match. My mother knows. I don’t know if she ever argued with my father, but she must know about some of this. She was raised as a knight’s daughter—and she experienced this type of arrangement. I’ll ask her what to do._

Hermione began to compose her letter, explaining that she and Tom had quarreled, that he had not hit her or otherwise harmed her physically, but that they were gravely at odds now—and she asked what she should do about it. She decided not to mention what the arguments had been about. As much as she wished she could tell her mother alone, she did not expect that her mother would keep certain kinds of information from her father. If her parents knew that she and Tom had slept together, her father would probably insist on a wedding immediately at swordpoint—and if they knew that Tom had argued with her the second time because he had been tortured over a murder that was related to the rape of a classmate, they would likely be horrified and take her out of Hogwarts. Either option would result in the end of her formal magical education. She regretted it, because since she was not going to _lie_ about the causes of their dispute, she could not easily convey the severity of it. She just hoped that her mother did not think that it was some trivial dispute between young lovers. She wanted to know what her mother thought she ought to do to persuade Tom to be more reasonable and considerate of her.

* * *

Elsewhere in the castle, Merope was reading a letter that she had just received from Armand Malfoy. Her eyes grew ever wider as she examined it.

 

_Your ladyship,_

_I apologize once again for the suffering of your son at the wand of my right-hand man’s vassal. Lord Carrow had been attending me in my castle, but I think the position must have given him airs and made him believe he could act as he pleased. I cannot otherwise account for his conduct to your son._

 

 _“Sure_ you can’t,” Merope muttered under her breath. Had Malfoy even written this, she wondered? Her previous encounters with him had shown him to be an impulsive, aggressive, questionably rational old wizard, certainly not one who could paint a false smile on his withered face. She half-believed that Lestrange had composed this letter… but then, he was not much better. With both Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black dead, and Lucius Malfoy apparently not trusting anyone, including his own grandfather, who could have been the person behind this oily composition? _Perhaps they are better at unctuous deceit when they can hide behind handwriting,_ she thought as she continued to read.

 

_He has been relieved of his duties to me and returned to serve the Lestrange family as a result of his disobedience. However, I understand why this punishment—and the fifty Galleons—may not assuage your wrath. I have pardoned Lord and Lady Carrow for repudiating their oaths to the Gaunt family, because of the circumstances, so do not expect that I will order the Lestranges to surrender either of them. Nonetheless, Lord Lestrange and I have considered your proposition of voiding the outstanding debt of Hangleton, and I have concluded that this is an offer I can make to you. Although I do have evidence that Hangleton cheated on its taxes while your late brother Lord Morfin Gaunt ruled as baron, this occurred before your ascension to the high seat. However, in this and coming years, I do expect full remittance of tribute owed to the Lord of Wizards and Witches._

 

Merope glowered. “Evidence?” she spat. “Probably something that the Carrows told him.” She pushed the letter across the table and thought about what she had just read. _Something is up,_ she thought. _I do believe either Malfoy wrote this himself or Lestrange for him, now that I have read all of it, but they obviously have something planned—and whatever it is, it is bad. They would not let that much gold go. It must be this scheme of forced marriage to Caractacus Burke that Severus has mentioned before. They must think they have a way of killing Sir Thomas. Even changing the official records to show an annulment won’t release me from my vows as a witch… it would delegitimize Tom… but I would still be bound by my own words, since Sir Thomas was the one who broke faith, not I. They must believe they have a plan to kill my former husband._

Severus Snape had been in the room the entire time. When Merope pushed the letter at him, he picked it up gingerly and scanned it. As he finished it, he heaved a sigh.

“The barony _did_ owe a lot of money in taxes,” he muttered in a subdued voice. He gazed at her with sad eyes. “I have another confession: Your late brother turned over all the accounting tasks to me, and I concealed the true income from him, because he was such a profligate. I believed he would run through it all and put the fief in debt to God only knows who otherwise. I am sorry for the repercussions. I never anticipated this.”

Merope smiled weakly. “You have no reason to apologize. To be honest, Severus, I suspected this at the very beginning of our acquaintance, when you showed me the accounts and the gold. It was good of you to protect the wealth of the fief from him, since I know you did not steal. This would not have been an issue if not for a spy—Carrow, most likely, the traitor—and Malfoy’s determination to harm this family.” She sighed deeply. “They have something else planned, of course, and I assume it relates to the Burke scheme.” She stretched her hands out across the table and did not look at him. “Severus… if it turns out that they have a plan to draw out Sir Thomas to his death, there is something to consider….”

Severus looked pained for a fraction of a second, but attempted in the next to force the expression off his face. He knew what she was about to allude to, and his heart should have leapt for joy at the idea, but not like this. Not as a counter-move in a political game of lords. _You are a nobleman now,_ he told himself. _This is often part of it. At least she does care._

“I will always do my duty to you and your family, my lady,” he said stiffly.

She glanced at him. “Duty, Severus?” she said, her voice low. She rose from her seat. “If that is how you see it, very well.” Before he could explain—if he had even been capable, which, at the moment, he was not, in his embarrassment—she left the room in a swish of robes.

* * *

Tom was trying to discover where his father currently lived—and to do so without his mother’s knowing about it. The older documents from before they became nobles were still in the castle, though Tom hoped they were not in his mother’s bedchamber or her private office. Those rooms would probably be locked, even against him.

 _Asking_ her where he had lived was out of the question. It was too likely to rouse her suspicion, as he had always taken more interest by far in the Gaunt side—the magical side—than in his father’s family. Finally, four days after Wilkes arrived, the very day he was to return to his home, Tom asked him if he knew anything more.

“I don’t know if it’s right, highness,” the boy mumbled, “but my father mentioned that he lived in a village of the baron, the Muggle lord, just to the north of Hangleton. Which one, I don’t know. It’s a large holding.”

Tom considered that. “If he is a knight, he will be easy enough to locate amid streets full of peasants… unless he is fighting for one of the Muggle pretenders. Is he?”

“Not to my father’s knowledge.”

Tom nodded. “Good.” He clenched his wand. “I have some questions to ask him tomorrow.”

But the current day was not yet finished, and in addition to the expected event of Wilkes’s departure, another event not expected by anyone was to happen early that evening.

* * *

Tom and Merope were seeing Wilkes off, with Hermione standing by stoically, ice in her generally warm eyes, when the Muggle captain of the guard for the barony knocked at the great doors of the castle hall. Displeasure showing in his distinctive face, Severus Snape descended from the platform to attend to the call.

“What is this, Nigel?” he said sharply to the man once on the other side of the doors.

“My lord, we have apprehended a wizard trying to gain entrance to the castle,” Nigel said. “The device that her ladyship the baroness gave us was of infinite use. He claims he is a former liege lord of the baroness, seeking to take the oath again, but that’s not for me to know. I thought you should check it out first.”

Severus’s eyebrows flew up his forehead in surprise. Who could it be? Amycus Carrow would not dare… was this some new scheme of Malfoy or Lestrange? He gazed at the guard captain. “You did right,” he said brusquely. “Lead me to this wizard.”

“We’ve kept him in the guard house,” Nigel said conversationally. “He can’t wriggle out of that binding that the baroness gave us. I’m just glad it doesn’t work on us ordinary mortals who have no magic.”

Earlier that year, Merope had given the more important Muggles in her village some leather straps that were charmed to detect magic and wrap around the arms and legs of any wizard or witch on whom they were thrown. Since she was so short-handed with respect to magical vassals, she and Severus had decided that it was necessary to hand a bit of magic to the Muggles—a _very_ small and highly ordered bit, since they could not control anything magical.

Severus was rarely conversationally inclined even in the best of times, but he certainly did not feel the inclination to chat with this man before seeing who had been detained. He huffed, silencing the captain—who was intimidated both by magic and by titled aristocrats—for the remainder of the walk to the guard house.

Once they reached it, the man moved to unlock the door, but Severus flicked his wand, wide black robe-sleeves draping from his wrists and waving slightly in the air. The heavy door swung open. There in a hard chair, his arms and legs bound tightly by the leather, was a pudgy wizard with beady little eyes and sandy brown hair. One of his hands was missing its little finger. He was certainly not dressed well, and he smelled unclean, as if he had spent a great deal of time in the wild, but Severus recognized him.

“Peter Pettigrew!”

The wizard gazed back, his eyes darting from one spot to another in the room before settling nervously on Severus’s face. “Severus Snape!” he exclaimed, his voice sounding wheezy but enthusiastic.

Severus glared. “There are ways of disguising oneself by magic. I will not admit you to Lady Riddle’s presence until I examine you thoroughly to ensure that you are not an impostor.”

Pettigrew swallowed. “Severus, my lord, I have come here to swear the oath—”

“And if you truly are Pettigrew, you will be allowed to do just that. But I have been told that you attempted to get into the castle, which is not a great start.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” he whined. “I just forgot about protocol. You must understand, Severus, I have been living rough for five years, after my mother’s death—”

“Do not speak of it to me. If you are sincere, you can tell Lady Riddle and me at the same time. Nigel,” he said to the captain, “I will return shortly with potions to test this man’s claims. Thank you for your good work.”

Severus returned to the guard house shortly with a vial of Veritaserum in one hand and a bottle of enchanted water in another, purportedly from an ancient sea cave that figured in several Celtic wizarding legends, which would wash away physical disguises. With his signature scowl adorning his face, he strode to the wizard and doused him with the water.

Pettigrew coughed and shivered, but his appearance remained the same. A thin smile of satisfaction appeared on Severus’s face. He supposed he shouldn’t, but he enjoyed this. This wizard had vanished, abandoning his duties, while _he—_ Severus—had stayed on, putting up with numerous indignities, for the sake of the _decent_ members of the family. He had been stripped of his title and reduced to being a castle employee because of his blood status. He had been sent on increasingly outrageous errands to procure expensive items. He had, finally, been ordered to go to London to bring back Merope, Morfin’s own _sister,_ so that he could force her to be his “wife.” He had risked a traitor’s death to kill Morfin and clear the way for Merope. What had Pettigrew done? Apparently he had hidden in the wilderness for a while, but how much hardship was that, really, to a wizard? Severus had not the least problem making the wretch suffer a bit.

He forced open Pettigrew’s mouth and poured the Veritaserum down his throat. Pettigrew’s face grew slack and expressionless. Severus gestured for the Muggle captain of the guard to leave.

“Why did you abandon your vassalage?” Severus asked Pettigrew once they were alone.

“Lord Morfin killed my mother,” Pettigrew said. “He ordered her into his bed, and when she refused, he set a nest of adders on her. She did not even have a witch’s funeral. Her body was dumped in a midden.”

Even knowing how vile Morfin Gaunt had been, Severus was appalled, and his ill feeling toward Pettigrew softened a bit at this. “Did you think your own life was in danger?”

“I was sure it was. The Carrows had fled already, and it seemed the wise thing to do.”

Severus considered what to ask next. Suddenly a question occurred to him. Glaring at the wizard, he asked in harsh tones, “When did you learn that Lady Riddle was alive?”

“Three years ago.”

Severus’s black eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. “And why did you not return _then?”_

“She was born a Gaunt. I did not know what kind of baroness she was.”

Severus considered that. It was still cowardly, but he supposed that it made sense, given the appalling history that Pettigrew had narrated. And—he realized with a pang—he was far from clean himself. Who was he to pass judgment on this man’s cowardice? To Pettigrew, it had been self-preservation.

Something else occurred to Severus, something that he had tried to discover from Sirius Black but had been unable to do so. “Are you an Animagus?” he pressed.

“Yes.”

That did not surprise Severus as much as he thought. He supposed he had always known it, on some level. “What is your form?”

“A garden rat. It is how I survived in hiding for so long.”

“You lived as a rat for five years?”

“Mostly so. I did stay near wizarding areas, though.”

The potion was going to wear off in a moment; Severus had very little of it and had not wanted to waste such an expensive solution. He had one last question before he could no longer be sure that Pettigrew was talking under Veritaserum.

“You stayed near wizarding areas, so you could have heard news and gossip. Do you know of the current political situation regarding my lady, Lord Armand Malfoy, and Rodolphus Lestrange?”

“Yes, I know about it.” He blinked, and the dullness in his eyes sharpened as the potion’s effect disappeared. For a moment he looked nervous, but in the next, it passed.

“Very well,” Severus said, rising. “I will have suitable clothing procured for you before your presentation to Lady Riddle. I understand that you acted on fear, but you did avoid your duties even while knowing that she lived and ruled here. You must realize that her ladyship may place you on probation, in a sense. You will need to prove your loyalty to her.”

“I am ready to do that,” Pettigrew replied.

* * *

That night, Severus brought Pettigrew before Merope to tell his story and take the oath. He was dressed in ill-fitting brown velvet, but it was still better cloth than the rags he had worn when he was discovered. Merope sat on the high seat, her face serene and solemn, as she accepted his oath of fealty. Hermione stood nearby, observing the wizard’s jittery behavior. When Severus had first brought him into the grand hall, Crookshanks had darted away from her side to try to attack him. Given what Pettigrew had explained to her and Lady Merope about the horrible fate of his mother, Hermione was shocked and deeply embarrassed that this would be part of his reintroduction to the castle, and had confined the cat to her room after that incident. It was understandable that her cat would hunt rats—that, after all, was how she had first found him—but Pettigrew was _human,_ even if Crookshanks apparently could detect his Animagus form even when he was not transformed. At least, she assumed that was why he was acting this way. She would have to train him not to do that again.

Tom was nowhere to be found, and Merope was deeply displeased. “He did not have to be here, in a legal sense,” she said after the ceremony, “but it was proper for him to. His friend is already gone. Where could he have gotten to?”

Hermione certainly did not know, and she was wickedly pleased that Tom’s mother was irritated with him. Tom was likely somewhere in the castle, or on the grounds, his nose buried in a book about Salazar Slytherin or Morgana le Fay or the Gaunt family. Hermione would very much enjoy seeing his mother upbraid him for rudeness caused by his obsessions. Those very fixations had all but destroyed _her_ relationship with him, and she wanted him to get his comeuppance for it.

* * *

Tom was not, in fact, in the barony at all. He had changed his plans after learning that Peter Pettigrew had appeared. Dealing with that situation would surely occupy all of them, and they would not note his absence at such a time.

He prowled through the villages of the fief, a hooded black cloak concealing his face and fine clothing from the villagers. This was a large barony, which surprised Tom—would such a wealthy Muggle as this place’s lord not want to increase his wealth by supporting a pretender to the throne, rather than remaining neutral?—but then he remembered that Muggles could not influence the course of a war by any but the crudest means, so it would be a gamble. The baron probably assumed he was better off protecting what he had, rather than risk losing all of it—and possibly his life as well—by backing the loser. Hermione’s father had made the same calculation, Tom recalled.

He grew exasperated. He needed to find his blasted father, and this task had proved much more difficult than he had anticipated. He did not want to talk to poor Muggles, but perhaps it was necessary. Surely some of them—the better-educated tradesmen, most likely, rather than the ignorant provincial peasants—would know where to find a knight. He scanned the street, settling upon a Muggle dwelling that stood a little apart from the others and seemed a bit nicer than the rest. It also a bore a sign with no lettering— _illiterate Muggles,_ Tom thought with scorn—but a picture of a robe and a shoe on it. If this was the house of the village tailor and cobbler, perhaps this skilled Muggle had even offered his services to Tom’s father….

In a minute, Tom had exactly the information that he desired. Sir Thomas Riddle and his second wife, Lady Cecilia, lived atop a hill inside the walls surrounding the baron’s castle. Tom craned his head to see it. It was a fine house, to be sure, and a deep resentment simmered inside Tom as he began to approach it. It was not that he wished he lived as a subject of a Muggle baron… but after all, he would not have lived as one indefinitely. If he had grown up with his father, he would have lived like that only until his uncle had died, and then his… _parents…_ would have come to Parselhall and his mother would have assumed her title, just as she had done. That would not have changed, but other things would have.

As he walked, he remembered the winter of his eighth year, when Mother had been unable to afford meat and the two of them had grown tired from weakness of the blood.

He remembered the tiny flat in London that they had lived in, a loft above the potioneer shop where his mother had worked. She had put up animal skins over the windows, obscuring the view, because they could not afford glass and the potionmaker would not pay for it.

He remembered the first year he went to Hogwarts, the year before they came into their property and title, the year before he met Hermione. _“Filthy half-blood! Blood-traitor whore of a mother! Peasant!”_ The jeers of his Norman-blooded classmates, the spawn of invaders, rapists, and robbers, bounced through his mind as he ascended that hill.

He remembered a particularly awful scene from his first Hogwarts year, which he had never told Hermione—or even his mother. Someone—he had never found out who, but it had to have been one of the older pupils—had cursed him to tumble down one of the stone staircases of the castle. He had spent that night in the sick room as the healer repaired his broken ribs and ankles. Professor Slughorn had been furious— _he_ at least had seen Tom’s prodigious magical talent and had taken him under his wing—but it had not mattered. Everyone in Slytherin had denied being part of the attack, and Dumbledore had not permitted Slughorn to question them under Veritaserum. _Dumbledore never liked me,_ Tom seethed.

He was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin and Morgana le Fay! Even if this low, disgraceful, cheating Muggle was his father, his magical lineage was impeccable. _More_ than impeccable. He clutched his wand in growing fury.

The grand house was near. Tom stood before it in the shadows, largely concealed by his cloak, the dark night seeming almost to embrace him, as he gathered his thoughts and attempted to cool his temper. He would give his father a chance to explain himself first. Perhaps the male Gaunts had come after him… and perhaps he did not know that Mother still lived.

There was a faint crackle in the air as Tom passed onto the grounds of the knight’s manor, but it was brief, and Tom did not think much of it. He drew his wand surreptitiously and cast sleep spells on the guards that feebly protected the entrance to the manor. Smirking, he cast another spell to cause the double doors to swing open, and—with another deep breath—entered his father’s home.

He put two more guards to sleep, these stationed in the halls, before he located the family parlor where a fire blazed and the Muggle Riddles sat. Pushing the door open, he stood in the threshold, wand in hand, alert and ready. Sure enough, a fire crackled away in the great hearth. The heads of a boar and a stag were mounted on the walls on either side of the outward-projecting flue, and on the other side of the room fluttered the banners of Sir Thomas and, Tom guessed, his Muggle lord.

Sir Thomas Riddle was a man in his early forties. Tom realized, with shock, that the man looked stunningly like himself, just at an older age. Silver strands mixed with his black hair, and lines creased his face. Next to him sat a much younger blonde woman, who Tom noticed with a surge of dismay was very obviously with child.

“You!” Sir Thomas exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He reached for his dagger. Lady Cecilia gasped and shrank back.

Tom flicked his wand, and the hand holding the weapon began to move inexorably toward Sir Thomas’s own neck. The Muggle gasped and tried to force movement in the opposite direction, but he could not fight the magic of a wizard. Tom smirked as the lethally sharp point of the dagger drew ever nearer to Sir Thomas’s carotid artery. Finally, the blade reached skin. Tom instantly stopped the spell, leaving the dagger edge against Sir Thomas’s neck but—barely—not drawing blood. The man gulped.

“You may drop that weapon,” Tom said coldly. “If you attempt to do anything else with it, I’ll finish what I started.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the knight released his grip on the dagger. It clattered to the floor. Tom smirked again.

“It seems that you know who I am,” he began in deliberately casual tones, entering the room at a leisurely pace like a snake circling slowly around its prey before striking. “I have the right to strike you dead here and now for attempting to kill me, you know.”

“No you don’t! You entered my house, you little….” Sir Thomas thought better of his words before completing that sentence. He swallowed again, resentfully. “Thomas, is it?”

 _“Lord_ Thomas,” Tom corrected. “My mother—your _true_ wife,” he added with a contemptuous sneer to Lady Cecilia, “was reinstated in her rightful title three years ago.” He gazed at his father again. “You could have shared in our riches, but it’s far too late for that now, of course.”

“Your mother was never my true wife, and _you_ are no legitimate son of mine.” Spite filled the man’s words.

Tom pointed his wand at Sir Thomas’s nose again. “So claimed King Arthur after he was with the harlot Guinevere, I’m sure. It was false when he said it, and it is false for you to say it.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about that story for?”

“His _true wife_ and _legitimate_ son are my ancestors,” Tom snarled, advancing. He pressed the tip of his wand against his father’s forehead. “You married my mother. There are records of it. You are a filthy liar.”

Sir Thomas sneered back. “Your mother married me under false pretenses. She never told me that she was unnatural. She never said she was one of _those_ Gaunts.”

 _“Unnatural?”_ Tom breathed, fury spiking through his system. He flicked his wand, and the man doubled over in pain. “We are as natural as the air you breathe! We have always been here, and we used to _rule_ your kind! Perhaps someday we shall again,” he added. He glared. “My mother was not obliged to tell you about her family or her ability. It was a real marriage.”

“She lied to me.”

“And why might that be?” Tom mocked. “Perhaps because you held her in contempt for her inborn ability— _you,_ a pathetic Muggle, of all the presumption? She told you her name. It’s hardly her fault if you were too stupid to guess that she might have been one of the Gaunts from Hangleton.”

“Her family— _your_ family—was depraved!” he roared. “They would have fed me to a snake! Everyone knows about how they hiss like snakes, and where it came from—fucking snakes for centuries, no doubt, when they weren’t in bed with their own mothers and fathers!”

Tom’s blood boiled. “How _dare_ you, you ignorant lout of a Muggle! You don’t know what you are talking about. I guess this is the kind of rot that _your kind_ think up. This is what you really think of us!” He cursed Sir Thomas again, making him reel.

Lady Cecilia cried out in despair. “Please stop!”

“Stay out of it,” he said coldly. “I have no quarrel with _you,_ and you would be wise to keep it that way.”

She shrank back in terror. Her husband glanced at her. “Don’t provoke him further.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly, looking down at her large belly.

Tom scoffed in disgust. “How pathetic. That’s probably why you divorced my mother. As a witch, she knew that she did not have to do as you told her!” He paused for a moment. “And, by the way, if you think the marriage was invalid, why _did_ you get a civil divorce instead of an annulment?”

“The priest wouldn’t do it!” he exclaimed, hatred in his eyes. “Some rubbish about how your mother had sworn her vows ‘as a witch’ and so he couldn’t invalidate that.”

“What priest? There are no wizard priests,” Tom snapped, but suddenly he was not so sure.

“I just bet there are,” said Sir Thomas resentfully. “You people have probably infiltrated everything. This one was named… Father Alfred Black, I think. Or Alphard.”

Tom was thunderstruck. If this priest was a wizarding Black, he was a member of the family that Tom had never heard of. Lord Regulus’s brother Sirius had been disowned. Had someone else, too? Tom had never known a wizard or witch who openly followed the old religions of the Celts or the Vikings… they had all converted to Christianity centuries ago, including his own family… well, a century and a half ago, he thought… and for all of Tom’s interest in Celtic ritual magic, he did not believe he was _actually_ invoking their deities. His conviction was that the ancient druids had been practicing their own magic all along and that the Muggles had attributed it to their gods. But casually observing the important Christian holidays, and changing from believing in multiple deities to believing in one, was a very different matter to actually becoming a priest in the church. The Fat Friar of Hufflepuff was the only wizard who he thought had any part of it.

Tom quickly made a mental note to look into this, but he had more business with his father first. “So anyone that you think might be magical, you see no reason to believe or respect—even a priest. You hate magic _that_ much, and that is why you abandoned my mother and me to poverty and near-starvation for thirteen years!”

Sir Thomas was unmoved. “Your serpent-spawn whore of a mother deceived me, _bastard.”_ The way he said the word made it perfectly clear that he meant it by its literal definition rather than as a generic insult. “Both of you got what you deserved—except for the fact that she _didn’t_ starve before you could be born!”

At that, Tom snapped. With a snarl, he swished his wand through the air, opening a wound on Sir Thomas’s forehead from which blood immediately streamed. The man cried out and tried to put his fingers to it to staunch the flow, but in the next moment, Tom immobilized him with another spell. He leaned forward and locked his gaze with his father’s, forcing his way into the man’s mind and memories.

_“You are one of those Gaunts?” he cried in disbelief. “The serpent-talkers? The heathens? The torturers, the ones who practice sorcery?”_

_Merope clutched her burgeoning belly. “I ran away from them! I know what they are, and that is why I escaped!”_

_“You used me to escape?”_

_“I care about you!”_

_He strode forward, glaring hatefully at her and the stick of wood in her hand. He reached for it as if to snap it. She jerked her hand away, keeping the wand from him, her eyes wide with terror. “Please don’t! I need this. I never used magic against you, Thomas—I love you!”_

_His hand bore a gauntlet of metal, a piece of his knightly suit of armor and mail._

_His hand was sheathed in metal._

_His hand was sheathed in metal, with sharp edges around each joint of each of his fingers, and he reached out and struck her across the face._

_She recoiled, dropping her wand as she reached instinctively for the cheek from which blood now streamed._

_He struck her again across the other cheek. “Get out of my sight, sorceress!” He gazed at the wand and picked it up._

_“Don’t do that—” she began to say, but the object sparked in his hands, heating the metal dangerously. He let out an unmasculine shriek and dropped it like a hot coal. With a kick of his booted foot, he sent it toward the far wall and advanced on her. “Get out of my sight and never return! You put my life at risk! Your mad family—” He gazed at her belly. “Get out before I do worse, sorceress.”_

Tom had seen quite enough. He jerked his mental presence out of Sir Thomas’s mind and gazed at him with hatred etched in every line of his young face.

“You struck her,” he said. “You struck her across the face, with armor over your hands, and you threatened to kill _me_ before I was born.” He clutched his wand and shot another disdainful look at Lady Cecilia. “Does she know what you are?” He gazed into her eyes. “Did you hear what your ‘husband’ did to another woman? Does he do it to you too, I wonder?”

She would not look at either of them. “I know my duty as a wife.”

Tom snorted derisively. “How contemptible. How can you hold yourself in such low regard, Muggle? This man is not your superior. _I_ am, of course, but it’s because I can do magic.” He rose from his knees and freed Sir Thomas. “As for _you,_ I challenge you for myself and my mother. I call you out for your lies and insults about her, your attacks on her, and your betrayal and abandonment of your family.” He flicked his wand and summoned Sir Thomas’s dagger from across the room. With a dark smile on his face, he passed it to the man, who sat on the chair, barely moving, even though he was no longer confined by magic. “Get up and duel me, _Father.”_

Sir Thomas glared hatefully at Tom. “As if I stand a chance.”

“That’s hardly my problem.” Tom was enjoying himself. “Bow to me, Father. I will observe the niceties, since we’re both titled.” He smiled again. “I’ll even spare this woman. I can’t say I like the idea of having a Muggle half-sibling, but unlike you, I do not harm women who have done nothing to me.” He felt proud of himself for that. It seemed so magnanimous.

Sir Thomas rose, wobbling on his feet and clutching the dagger, aware that his death was likely at hand. Father and son bowed, Tom keeping one eye trained on the man in case he tried anything treacherous—

—Which he did. While Tom’s head was bowed, Sir Thomas lunged for the back of his neck. Tom flicked his wand, sending him reeling backward, dagger flailing around in the air.

Tom stood upright and faced Sir Thomas with contempt in his eyes. “Some knight you are,” he said coldly. “You can’t even fight honorably.”

“You don’t deserve an honorable duel from me,” hissed Sir Thomas. “Your kind have never done anything honorably.”

Without another word, Tom flicked his wand. The dagger once again was attached to Sir Thomas’s hand, and the arm itself began to move toward the man’s neck. “Aren’t you going to do it painlessly?” he exclaimed.

Tom paused the spell. “I could,” he said, “but you made my mother suffer. Why should I show mercy to you?” He resumed the spell, slowing it down, so the man’s torment of watching that gleaming dagger edge approach his neck was even greater. Beads of sweat poured down his face.

Lady Cecilia got up. _“Please_ don’t do this!” she cried. “Please, I beg you!”

Tom turned aside and flung her away, toward the cushioned chair, with another spell. “He is going to die,” he said. “You had better accept that. If you don’t want to watch it, then get out of this room.”

“Thomas—” she exclaimed to her husband.

“Cecilia, go!”

With despair in her pretty face, she fled. Tom considered for a moment before freezing her in place in the hall so she could not escape the house and alert anyone. Then he returned to his father. The dagger was again pressed against his neck, and this time, a bead of blood had appeared.

“I want you to know something,” he said through clenched teeth. “I have the legal right to kill you for abandoning us, and for what you said about my mother—and _did_ to her—but before I do, I want you to know, my mother is a witch and a lady, and you were never anything but a dispossessed Muggle. Yes, I know that your family used to rule this fief,” he added maliciously. “The filthy Normans took it away from you. You could have been living in our castle in great honor and wealth if you hadn’t decided to be an oathbreaker.”

Sir Thomas glared back defiantly. In the next moment, Tom swished his wand again. The dagger cut deep, sending a gush of bright red blood through the air, nearly spattering Tom. With a sneer on his face, he drew back as the man bled out his life. He turned and stalked out of the room. Before he left the manor, he made sure to modify Lady Cecilia’s memories. Let her think that the guards betrayed him. He felt that he had shown all the mercy he cared to for one night. He _could_ have used the Cruciatus Curse, after all….

Tom emerged again into the dark night, feeling strangely cold despite the fact that it was summer. His thoughts were oddly disjointed, almost as if someone else had just done that—had just committed that killing.

 _It was a duel,_ he told himself. _Even if he never stood a chance against me, I did observe the rules of dueling. Not all duels are between equals. It was not murder. It wasn’t. And he deserved it even if it was._

He shook his head, trying to reorder his thoughts. This was odd indeed. He supposed that taking a life was momentous, no matter the circumstances, and that was why he felt this sense of vague disconnection in his own thoughts. _I just avenged my mother,_ he thought. _She lied to me, all these years, and I will have some words with her about that as well, but he hurt her and abandoned us, and I have avenged her._

_I’ve avenged my ancestor too. Arthur disowned his son—his only son, his legitimate son—because that son was a wizard. He abandoned the Lady Morgana and went to a Muggle woman. I have avenged Mordred as well. I have reversed the original evil, in a way… this is important… this is significant, even prophetic, I think. This is another sign that I will achieve what I seek._

An unwelcome thought intruded. After that disgusting sight, Tom was almost ashamed of being named for that Muggle. Why had his mother done it? He had _hit_ her. What had she been thinking? _She did name me that, and I will respect her wishes… but when I get my crown at last, my royal name will not be Thomas. I will be crowned as Mordred II Serpent-Tongue._ Smiling smugly to himself, he turned to Apparate home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, and happy birthday to one brat with a very high opinion of himself and a taste for self-aggrandizing fantastic dreams.
> 
> The chapter title has a double meaning. The first meaning is obvious. If you know what the second meaning references (and I've put a really brief additional hint in the chapter, for those who might recognize it), then \m/!


	32. Liar To Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much as always! The previous chapter was pivotal, and so is this one. In fact, from this point forward, virtually every chapter is going to have either pivotal actions, reveals, or character moments (or some combination). Buckle up tightly.

Shortly after Pettigrew had taken the oath, been escorted into a room in the guest wing until his family home could be made ready for him, and Merope had expressed her irritation with Tom’s absence, yet another guest had come to the castle, further distracting everyone from Tom’s whereabouts. Regulus Black was there, his face ghastly and drawn.

“We had best have this discussion in a completely private room,” Severus said in a hush as he ushered the cloaked, hooded wizard into a dark corridor. Merope took the lead and brought them into her office, which she locked and silenced.

Severus considered for a moment before casting a diagnostic spell at each of the four walls. He breathed a sigh of relief when nothing untoward happened. Merope raised her eyebrows questioningly at him.

“I know that Pettigrew took the oath,” he said, “but you’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely trust him. I certainly don’t want him to know that Regulus is here.”

“The doors to the guest wing are locked,” Merope said. “He won’t be going anywhere else in this castle.” She turned to Regulus. “I do have a bottle of red wine in this room, my lord, if you would like some. Forgive me, but you look unwell.”

Regulus nodded. “Thank you, I think I will.” As she summoned the bottle of wine—and Severus stepped in to decant and serve it—Regulus took a deep breath, as if to calm his nerves, and began to speak.

“My house-elf Kreacher came to me, distraught, telling me that our source in Malfoy Manor was worried sick about something,” he said without preamble. Severus passed him the glass of wine, then poured additional ones for Merope and himself. Regulus sipped it and sighed deeply. “The Malfoy elf had overheard Lestrange talking to Malfoy about your son, your husband, and Caractacus Burke. Another wizard was there, pleading for his life, swearing that he had ‘done his part,’ that he had even used his own family for their purposes, and now he wanted his reward—and then Malfoy _murdered_ him, stating that this was the ‘reward.’ They celebrated after that.” Regulus took another sip and gazed at Merope. “My lady… pardon me for asking, but does your son know that your Muggle husband is alive?”

Merope was startled. “I admit I have kept the information from him,” she said. “We parted on very bad terms. I did not want to tell Tom as a young child that his own father abandoned him. He is not a child now, of course, but the right time for the truth never came.”

Regulus sighed deeply. “That makes sense, but I fear that your son has been betrayed—that somehow, Lestrange and Malfoy have passed the information to him. Where is he right now?”

Merope’s eyes widened. “I don’t know,” she breathed. “We were unable to find him for an important event earlier this evening….” Something else occurred to her. “He had a friend as a guest who just left this afternoon. The Wilkes lad. Do you think that it was his father—the one that Malfoy murdered?”

“I don’t know,” he said frankly, “but apparently it was the father of someone your son knows. I would be prepared for the likelihood, Lady Merope, and consider counter-measures at once. Based on what my elf’s friend heard, they mean to act quickly… and I fear that they no longer intend to let any of you live if they get their way with this Burke marriage.” He paused briefly to catch his breath. “I have come here to propose an additional form of alliance between us. My family is under threat too since Malfoy murdered my grandfather. My parents are safe, and my wife’s father Cygnus has left Lucius Malfoy’s home and returned to his own, which is just as secure… but Bellatrix cannot be trusted, and we are still unsure about Lucius and Narcissa. Lestrange and Malfoy have done what they meant to do, and divided the pack.” He scowled grimly.

“The pack?” Merope repeated.

“My family’s symbol is the dog,” he explained briefly. “As for my alliance proposal… my mother is still somewhat resistant. Blood purity is… _very_ important to her. My father is close to being persuaded, though.”

Merope thought she understood. She gazed evenly at Regulus, her eyebrows narrowing. “My lord Regulus, I… thank you for the compliment… but you cannot expect that I would throw off Hermione. She has been fostered at this castle for three years. She may not officially be family yet, but I see her as such. And my son loves her.” She glanced quickly at Severus, who would not meet her eyes after that statement.

Regulus looked confused for a moment, but then he realized what she meant. “Oh, no—you misunderstand—I was not offering Dora for your son, Lady Merope. I was alluding to the future children your son and Lady Hermione will have.”

She furrowed her brow in thought. “I still don’t follow, then,” she said. “Your daughter would be too old by the time any grandchildren of mine were old enough to marry. Do you mean to have another child, then?” That surprised her; Andromeda Black was forty-two.

He glanced around, trying to decide something. Finally he sighed again. “What I am about to say must not leave this room— _ever._ It relates to my family.”

“You have my word,” Severus said at once.

“And mine,” Merope added.

He took another deep breath. “Dora is not my daughter by blood. I cannot sire children, Lady Riddle. I tried—I care for my wife, but….” He broke off. “Dora is still, of course, a Black through her.”

Merope looked disapproving. “I don’t mean to criticize you for your private family business, but… am I understanding you correctly that you made your wife have a child by another man so that you could claim an ‘heir’?”

“That’s not the case at all,” he said sharply. He leaned in. “Lady Riddle, do you know why I first decided to work against the Wizards’ Council?” He did not wait for a reply. “When I was younger, I had a… lover, I suppose you would say… and Armand Malfoy found out about it and had him killed.”

Merope and Severus both gaped.

“My grandfather set up my marriage at once. It was part of a bargain he made with Malfoy to protect me. I care for her and see her as a dear friend. We understand each other well, so she knew the truth. She knew I could not be—attracted to her. And then I discovered that I couldn’t even give her a child. What right did I have to keep her from all domestic forms of happiness? She was planning to elope, to face disinheritance, before the family scrambled our wedding together. The wizard, her lover, is Dora’s father by blood and in my service. My only requirement was that they keep that secret from her as long as I am alive. So—no, I am not speaking of a child of mine at all, Lady Merope.”

Merope tried to process what she had just heard. It was sad to her, desperately sad in so many ways… but she understood Regulus’s reasoning, and she was just glad that they had managed to make the best of an otherwise awful situation. “Are you speaking of a future child of Dora?” she asked.

He looked cagey at that. “Either her, or… my estranged brother. He is seeing a witch at last. Though I understand that his friend Potter does not approve.” He cracked a wry smile.

Severus’s face turned sour. “Your brother does not need Potter’s permission.”

Merope shook her head slightly, not wanting to go down that rabbit hole. She knew all about Severus’s dislike of James Potter and his friends, and she suspected that was why he distrusted Pettigrew. “I… will certainly consider what you have said,” she said haltingly. “And I am sensible of the honor you bestow. But you must accept that Tom and Hermione will finish Hogwarts before they get married, for one—”

“Certainly,” he agreed.

“And for another… well, I am not sure that I should make such an arrangement myself.”

He frowned. “You are the head of the family.”

“My son would insist on being part of any discussion involving his future children,” she said. She decided not to tell him that Tom and Hermione were estranged right now.

Regulus looked impatient. “Well, my lady, involve him if you feel that you must, but it is a sensible plan, so if you like the idea yourself, I hope you will impress the sense of it upon him. And if he _has_ done something dreadful tonight, the urgency of cementing an alliance of the strongest kind is all the greater. My father is very nearly persuaded, especially if he can keep Dora as the family heiress.”

Merope recognized that the discussion was at an end. “Thank you again,” she said. “I will consider your offer… and find my prodigal son,” she added with a weak laugh. “Let’s hope that he is just reading.” She rose, followed by Severus and Regulus, and together they left the room.

* * *

Tom was furious again by the time he reached the gate. He had thought about what his father had said about the Gaunts, Mother’s family. He had heard from other sources, including Mother herself, that his uncle Morfin and grandfather were not good lords and had had some cruel practices… but his father had also been cruel. Why had his mother named him after two cruel men? _Mother had issues,_ he thought sourly, the summer wind whipping his robes in the night.

But as important as his name was, even more important than that was the fact that Mother had run away from her family—and he still did not know precisely why. Sir Thomas might have thought she had run because of their magical practices, but Tom did not believe it. She was a witch herself. Why had she really done it? The thought crossed his mind briefly that this was the very reasoning his father had used for disbelieving her… _but he was an ignorant, magic-hating Muggle, whereas I’m merely being logical,_ he assured himself.

The great doors to the castle creaked open, and a group of three people stepped out. Tom slunk into the shadows so he would not be seen and peered out from behind a tree. There was Mother, there was Snape, and the third person wore a dark cloak and hood shadowing his face. It was hopeless to try to identify the stranger, and in the next moment, he Apparated anyway. Merope and Snape went back into the castle.

Tom waited a bit longer, during which time his burgeoning anger at her continued to expand. _She probably ran away from a set-up match of her own,_ he seethed. _I have long wondered about that, and I would bet almost anything that it’s true. She is probably a hypocrite and is definitely a liar, and I’m going to confront her._ As this thought filled his mind, he stepped out of the shadows and entered his home.

He noticed his mother talking in low voices with Snape. Scowling at that, he stepped up, the heat of his own righteous anger powering him.

“We need to have a talk, Mother. Right now.”

Her eyes widened in… what was that, Tom thought? Affront? He _had_ made that demand rather brazenly.

No, he realized—it was fear.

She took a deep breath, gave Snape an apologetic glance, and turned to Tom. “Very well, Tom,” she said, her tone resigned. It was almost as if… she knew what she was about to hear, Tom thought.

_But she can’t know, can she? How could she know?_ he thought as he walked with her into a small parlor. She closed the door behind them and locked it magically, then turned to him, her expression wary.

Tom decided just to go ahead with it. If she had guessed, so be it; if not, she would find out at once. “I don’t know if you noticed this, but I have been—away—this evening,” he began.

“Yes, I noticed,” Merope said sharply. “I suppose you are about to explain where you have been?”

At that tone of voice from her, Tom’s irritation flared up. “Yes, I certainly am,” he snapped back. He smirked at her. “And I am not the only one who has some explaining to do, _Mother._ I learned something very interesting indeed, namely, that my father—my Muggle father—was not dead, as you falsely claimed to me for years. I paid him a little visit.”

Merope looked pale. “You met your father?” She was sure she knew what was coming next, but she hoped she was wrong—

Tom glared. “I met him, and I dueled him, and he _is_ dead now.”

“Tom!” Despair, disappointment, and fear filled that cry, that one word, but he paid no heed to her anguish.

“He deserved it, and I was within my rights after what he said—after what he _did_ to us.”

“That’s dishonorable, Tom. It wouldn’t have been a fair duel—he was a Muggle—”

“That’s just too damned bad,” Tom spat. “Sometimes duelists aren’t equally skilled. I was more honorable than he was! He tried to stab me while we were bowing to each other! I left his Muggle wife alive, at least, but I had _every_ right to duel him and kill him. He abandoned us, he called you a ‘serpent-spawn whore,’ and he struck you wearing armor!”

She flinched at that memory and involuntarily put her left hand to her cheek, dropping it to her side at once as she realized. “How do you know about that?” she cried. “Did you read his memories?”

Tom smirked. “Of course. I saw that, and that was all I _needed_ to see. I was fully justified under the law, Mother.”

Merope attempted to gain command of herself. “Legal or not, you are a kinslayer now.”

Tom stopped in his tracks. Slowly he turned around to face her. “You have no moral authority to give me that name—or _any_ name,” he said, drawing his wand on his mother.

“Don’t you dare point your wand at me,” she said sharply.

Tom ignored this. “You are a liar, and I am done with your airs of moral superiority and noble generosity. I am done with your attempts to control my life. I have bigger plans than to sit on a chair in this castle.”

Merope snapped. “Oh, is that so?” she snarled. An orange spark shot from her wand tip; he jumped out of the way in shock. “This is not good enough for you now? Would you have preferred to continue living in the flat in London? I did this, I got this estate back, for _you,_ you ungrateful brat!”

“And you expected me to be happy with your setting the course of my life, I suppose. Why? _You_ weren’t happy! You wanted—not _more,_ of course,” he sneered, “but certainly something _different_ to what your father wanted for you. You wanted the freedom to elope with a Muggle, even if it meant losing your birthright, but you don’t want me to have that same freedom to order my own life. Well, I am done.”

Merope attempted to ignore the torrent of attacks. “Are you talking about Hermione?”

Tom sneered in derision. “I’m talking about a lot more than just Hermione.”

“Then what do you mean?” Her words were hard. “What do you think you want to do that I am preventing you from doing? Do tell me.”

“We should be fighting Armand Malfoy more!” he burst out. “We are the descendants of Slytherin, and of Morgana—we may not be _pure_ Celtic, but we’re closer to pure than any other wizard nobles. That was the best time in our country’s history for magic! We should be leading this fight, not a bunch of villagers in Hogsmeade and Godric’s Hollow with God only knows what secret agenda. You seem to think— _Hermione_ seems to think—that ignoring the problems will make them disappear.”

Merope stared hard at him. “I have not been ‘ignoring the problems,’” she said. “I have alliances with five noble families—and, yes, you helped through your friendships with their sons—though I have something to tell you about one of them in just a moment! I have also done work behind your back to protect this castle—”

He stormed about aimlessly, pale with rage. “All defensive! Why not challenge them?”

“A strong defense _is_ a challenge. It says ‘I know you mean me harm, and I’m prepared, and I can withstand your worst.’ You are a Slytherin, Tom—in your House and in your family. You should understand that.” She glared at him. “As for what I have been doing, you do not have a clue, or else you would not have done this! Let me tell you something. Armand Malfoy has been trying to have him murdered. I put up a shield over his home, protecting him from anyone not of my blood. _You_ , of course, got through… and I would guess that one of your friends told you that he was alive. Guess what, Tom? I just learned, while you were gone, that Lestrange was forcing the father of one of your friends—one of my _sworn allies—_ to manipulate his son into telling you that, so that you would go, get through my blood ward, and kill him in anger. _You_ just did Malfoy’s work for him!”

Tom scoffed. “Why would Malfoy care about the life or death of one stupid Muggle?”

“Malfoy and Lestrange want to force me to marry Caractacus Burke so that he can take over this castle and turn us all out—or kill us. They couldn’t do it so long as your father was alive, because I had taken vows with a magical oath.”

“What?” he exclaimed, the blood suddenly draining from his face. He had not anticipated anything like that.

“It’s true,” she said grimly.

Tom was stunned. He paled a bit as he gazed at his mother. “Malfoy wants to force you to marry Burke? That filthy shopkeeper who cheated you?”

“Did your friend tell you about that too?” she asked him rhetorically.

“So that’s what they have been planning—oh, no, I didn’t….” He trailed off, upset and momentarily regretful, but this changed at once. “But maybe I wouldn’t have if _you_ had not lied to me for years. You said he was dead.”

“I meant to tell you eventually.”

“Well, he _is_ dead now,” Tom said cuttingly. The shock of what he had just learned had passed. Why should he have let Malfoy and Lestrange prevent justice from being done? “Whatever Malfoy thinks he can do is a separate issue. I had _every_ right to kill him. He deserted us. He went back to his little manor, so secure in the belief that you wouldn’t survive and Lord Gaunt would never know what happened. He _left his wife and child to die_ and went back to his manor to live in comfort! It isn’t as large as this castle, but it would have been a decent place to live—and he denied that to us because we’re magical! You can’t possibly mourn him.”

Merope sighed. “I have not cared for him since you first did magic as a two-year-old. That was what finally made me let go, seeing that you were a wizard and realizing that my true place was with our people.”

“Why did you name me after him?” he burst out.

“I did not want to give you—or myself—the name of Gaunt. I am glad that I left him in the end, but try to understand that his treatment of me was far better than anything I had experienced from my family. I had you because of that choice, and that alone makes it worth it. He did not raise a hand to me until he learned that I was a witch.”

“He never should have at all. And—the name—I’m _named_ for him.”

“I agree he should not have… but Tom, it is _our_ name now. When I hear the name ‘Thomas Riddle,’ I don’t think of him; I think of you.” She sighed again. “He feared my family. The Gaunts were really loathed.” She stared at him. “I understand why you did what you did. He was a coward. I didn’t see that at the time. I was desperate and he was a way to escape.”

“Escape what?”

Merope blanched.

“Escape what, Mother?” Tom demanded, his face set. “An arranged marriage of your own? That’s it, wasn’t it? I knew you were a hypocrite.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Do not call me that—you do not know—”

Tom continued, disdainfully and arrogantly ignoring her sudden distress. “I don’t believe your decision to get the estate back had anything to do with me. It’s about your _own_ regrets. I guess you set me up with Hermione because he left you, and you must think you would have been better off with whoever your father wanted you to marry instead.”

Merope actually looked ill at this statement.

Tom noticed. “Who was it?” he demanded. “There must have been someone. There always is for noble spawn.”

She looked down at the floor, feeling queasy. Running away with Sir Thomas really had seemed like the right thing to do—or at least, much less wrong than the alternative….

“My own brother, Morfin Gaunt,” she said in a low tone.

Tom’s wand hand dropped of its own accord. His face contorted with revulsion. _“What?”_ he sputtered.

“It’s true. The Gaunts practiced sibling incest every few generations, to ‘keep the bloodline pure.’ Slytherin’s son and daughter were another pair,” she added pointedly.

Tom looked close to being sick, as if he were revolted by his own body now, by the flesh that bore that heritage. “How—that’s—how would that even have been _legal?”_

“Under the king’s law, it wouldn’t have been. But my family always concealed the truth from Muggles outside our own fief, and tyrannized the ones they ruled, and Malfoy’s Council explicitly permitted it for wizards because of blood purity. My ‘wedding’ would have been in six months.”

Tom was appalled. “That is disgusting,” he declared. “I… see now why you ran away.”

She looked away from him, her lip curling at the memories. “Until then, I had avoided thinking about my father’s depraved plans. But my brother was _jealous_ when I took a fancy to your father. He called me vile names and made an obscene reference to my father’s plans, and it was only then that I realized the horror of what my life would be. I resolved to get away however I could.”

Tom remained speechless, taking this in.

“I went outside the grounds whenever I could, sneaking into the barony to the north because there were so many villages—so much to see, even if they were all Muggles. Those prosperous little villages, full of tradesmen rather than field-bound serfs, ended up being my model for reforming Hangleton once I took power, in fact,” she added. “I fancied your father, but I didn’t really know him until we ran away. I realize now that he was a means of escape from that unnatural wickedness. If my father’s plans had been more typical of noblemen, then I don’t expect I would have eloped, unless my intended had been loathsome to me.” She raised her gaze to him. “Do you still think I am a hypocrite?”

He winced, unable to meet her eyes. “I… no, I don’t. I….” He trailed off uncomfortably.

She sighed. “Tom, we will take care of this. I wish you had not done this; I will not deny it, but I will not let it ruin us. I absolutely won’t marry Burke. I should have told you the truth… and I will start doing so more often… but _you_ had better start sharing more with me as well.”

Tom eyed her sullenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I want you to tell me what is this problem that you and Hermione will not resolve.”

Anger suddenly flared back up inside him. “That’s not your concern, Mother.”

“Is it not? The masters of Hogwarts tell me that they expect she will finish her tutelage next summer, the same time you do. You have less than _one year_ to resolve your differences before the wedding. After that….” She trailed off. Now might not be the best time to tell him explicitly about the Black family’s offer. “After that, you’ll need to start thinking about children and—your future as a family. You are _running out of time,_ Tom.”

“You assume that I still _want_ to marry her,” he said spitefully, the words tripping off his tongue before he knew it.

“You don’t have a choice.” She had just about had enough of her son’s petulance, especially considering what he had just done this evening—and what Merope knew she would have to do to counter Malfoy and Lestrange now. He had certainly circumscribed _their_ choices with his rash act. But as soon as she said this, she knew that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Tom stood still as her words rippled through his mind. A volcanic anger surged in him at this challenge.

“Oh yes I do,” he snarled. He pointed his wand at her again, defiantly. “If nothing else, I have the same choice you had. Shall I make it? It’s Hermione’s fault, ultimately, that I was tortured—and she didn’t even care! I told her about the bargain that you made with me, and she said herself that she might agree to end it!”

In truth, he did not want to end it. Hermione was intelligent and powerful, and he knew that he was still attracted to her… but at the same time, they were not on good terms after several things over the last year and a half—and he did not want to swallow his pride before her in order to reconcile. Nor did he want to swallow his pride before his mother.

Merope was horrified. She had known they were estranged, but she had no idea it was that bad. “It is not Hermione’s fault that Carrow tortured you, and if you accused her, I don’t blame her for reacting that way,” she said, attempting to convince herself that what her son had related were just the spiteful words of two young people—that neither of them had _meant_ it.

“I don’t want her to be sent away from Hogwarts,” he added quickly, his voice less angry and more uncertain, as the magnitude and possible implications of what he was saying filtered through his mind. “She is a talented witch and deserves a proper education. So things can continue as they are until she has finished.”

Merope studied him for several moments. She could not decide if he really did mean what he seemed to be implying—and calmly, now—or if the sudden change in his demeanor was because he was suddenly frightened of his own words.

“Tom, is there another girl?” she finally asked.

“No, and there never has been,” he said sullenly.

“Then what started it, Tom? What caused this fight? This happened long before you were tortured.”

The wall went up once more. “I already said that this is none of your concern, Mother.”

Merope finally snapped. “All right, you won’t tell me. So be it, Tom. If you _did,_ then I would try to help, but have it your own way. Since you will not give me any details, all I have to say is this: Whatever the cause, you bear at least part of the blame yourself—and you must know that. At a minimum, you owe her an apology for blaming her for something caused by enemies of this family—and you likely owe her an apology for more than that. Embarrassment at what you know you ought to do isn’t a good enough reason to break the betrothal.”

“You _promised_ me that if I didn’t want it, you wouldn’t make me go through with it,” he accused.

“If, near the wedding date, you have a _good_ reason not to want to marry Hermione, then I _won’t_ make you go through with it,” Merope shot back. “But angry pride is not a good reason.”

“You didn’t put any conditions on it when you made the promise,” he said petulantly. “You knew that I hadn’t been brought up noble, and you made it for that reason.”

“You have lived as one now. You’ve had _three years_ to get accustomed to the idea, and I know you and Hermione used to be very close. It’s not as if you had never met and were expected to marry in a month! I also know that the only reason you don’t talk to her now is your own pride, not that you actually dislike her.” She glared at him. “Do you think that she will remain single? If we jilt her, her parents will want to match her with some Muggle noble she has never even met—does that bother you?” she added, watching Tom’s face curdle. “You should consider what it means if it does.”

“It’s just that no witch should marry a Muggle,” he muttered. “Look what came of it with you.”

Merope gazed at him through narrowed, skeptical eyes before continuing relentlessly. “Considering what her age will be, she probably won’t have a long betrothal. She will marry a stranger, and likely an _old_ stranger at that, since most young noblemen would already be pledged by the time they are her age. Probably some childless widower looking to _breed…_.”

Tom’s face was twisting in revulsion, but that was exactly what Merope had meant to provoke with her crude choice of words. She took a deep breath. “Tom, you’re the last heir of the family. You _will_ have to marry. Hermione cares for you, even now. I’ve seen it. She has an air of sadness about her and I think it’s because she believes you don’t care about her.”

Tom did not reply. Her logic was cold and brutal, but he could not argue with it. It wasn’t fair of his mother to manipulate him like this, he thought. She could present the face of a demure lady, an easy mark. He knew the story—the _true_ story now—of his birth and the days leading to it. When everything had been taken away from her, his mother probably _had_ been depressed, fragile, and vulnerable. But when she was healthy of mind, she was a lot more manipulative than she wanted anyone to think. She was a true Slytherin, like him.

“I might indulge you if you had a valid reason. But that is not the case, and I will _not_ indulge your misplaced pride. Enough of it, Tom. You have a responsibility to her. If you don’t want her to marry someone else, you have to fulfill the agreement we made—which _you_ consented to, both by your signature and by your behavior with her. Oh yes, I know,” she added as he flushed deep pink. “I am sure you were discreet at Hogwarts… but this means you consented to the betrothal, and it’s clear that you see her as ‘yours’ still, as you hate the idea of her marrying someone else. So,” she finished pointedly, “the wedding _will_ go forward, but you’ll both be happier if you patch it up first.”

He finally spoke up. “Mother, you assume a great deal. I have a feeling that soon, there will be bigger concerns for all of us.”

Merope looked grave. “I hope you— _we—_ are both mistaken. But if we’re not, then that is all the more reason to cement ties and gather our family close.”

“Hermione isn’t really family,” he said spitefully.

Merope gave her son a level stare. “So if Malfoy harmed her, you wouldn’t care? _Oh,_ I _see,”_ she said as Tom blanched in horror. “You don’t like that idea at all, do you? Well, then.”

With that, she turned on her heels and stalked out, but not before giving Tom a final, pointed stare.

* * *

The first person Merope saw was Hermione. She had been on her way to find Severus, because she had sudden urgent business with him, but Hermione needed to know this too. She approached the younger witch in the corridor of the castle, halting in her tracks as they met.

“Hermione,” Merope said, catching her breath, “Tom has returned.”

Hermione’s face was expressionless, which made Merope’s heart sink. Oh, no—how bad _was_ this estrangement? She wished Tom had opened up to her….

“I might as well tell you,” Merope continued. “Brace yourself for something shocking, though.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “What has happened?” she breathed. “Is he all right?”

_“He_ is,” she said bitterly. “His Muggle father isn’t, though.” She sighed. “I had concealed from him, for his own good, the fact that his father had abandoned us before he was born, and the right time to tell him the truth never seemed to come. He found out himself, I believe from the friend who left today, and went out to confront his father. It turned into a duel—”

“Oh no!” Hermione exclaimed. She had instantly guessed what had happened next.

“Yes,” Merope confirmed. “My former husband behaved dishonorably, and Tom killed him in the duel.”

“He killed his own father,” Hermione repeated in a whisper, almost to herself. She gazed at Merope with wide, wounded eyes, though she was unwilling to say anything negative of Merope’s own son to her face.

Despair continued to fill Merope’s mind as she realized how much this hurt and disappointed Hermione. “Hermione, please, talk to him— _tomorrow,_ though,” she added. “We have all had too long of a day, and it would do more harm than good now. For tonight, take some wine and try to sleep, and please don’t think of him as a murderer,” she pleaded, trying to mend the breach between the two. “His father struck me just before I left him… he abandoned his family… he insulted me… and he tried to duel Tom dishonorably. Of course… this is going to change some things about this household and family, I should warn you now. I’ll have more to talk about tomorrow on that topic… and I am not saying that you should try to pretend that it has not happened… but please, talk to him tomorrow.”

Hermione was overwhelmed. Tom had taken a human life, and one who could not truly have defended himself against a wizard… she had known, she supposed, that he was capable of it, but now he had actually done it. Things would never be the same….

_They haven’t been the same in almost two years,_ she thought sadly as she headed toward her bedchamber. She would have a house-elf bring her the wine, which she would certainly need.

She reached her bedroom and entered it, closing the door sharply behind her. Crookshanks was waiting; he jumped on the bed as she flopped down and curled against her side.

_I wish I had waited to send my letter to my mother,_ she thought, petting Crookshanks. _This would have been something I could tell her. Even though Tom is a wizard, she would understand about duels of honor. I wish I had waited. I wonder what she will have to say when she writes back to me._

Tears formed in the corners of Hermione’s brown eyes, tears of unhappiness and stress. She let them trickle down the sides of her head and fall into the riot of hair that covered much of her pillow.

The Tom she had loved at age thirteen was gone. The innocence of those early days—and it _was_ innocent, she thought, even after they had consummated—would never return. If they did reconcile emotionally, it would always be darkened by everything that happened since then. _And I am sure there is more to come,_ she thought.

* * *

Based on what Regulus had told them, there was no time to spare. Malfoy and Lestrange already knew that the trap had been set, and evidently Merope had lost one of her allies as well as being made newly vulnerable. When she asked Severus to see her privately, Severus knew what she was going to discuss with him. It had been a day straight from hell, but it _still_ was not yet over, and Severus was not even sure that they could wait till the cold light of day next morning to make their move.

Merope closed the door behind them once they were in her office, sat down, and gazed across the desk at him. “Severus,” she began, “I am sure you know what I have called you here to talk about.”

“I think I do,” he said.

She pulled out a document from one of the cabinets and spread it out. “This is the contract between my family and the Grangers. I can use it as a model, though of course, some details would be different, since we are adults.”

Severus felt a spark of irritation. After the years of unspoken attraction, _this_ was how she was going to do it? By making assumptions and taking him for granted? It would _literally_ be nothing but a business transaction?

He swallowed his annoyance as best he could. “My lady—”

“Please, call me by my name when we are alone.”

That request placated him a little bit. “Merope,” he said, the address feeling strange, and yet natural, on his tongue. “You do me great honor. As I said before when you hinted at this topic, I will always do my duty to protect your family.”

She stared at him for a moment before her gaze fluttered down to the document. She swallowed. “Yes,” she said quietly. “You always have, after all.” She looked up at him once more, a forced smile on her face. “I regret to say that I doubt I can bear another child, though.”

“You don’t know that,” he urged. “It’s not as if you have attempted to since Tom was born!” It was extremely bold, but she laughed, making his spirits rise a bit more. “But if your guess is right, it’s just as well, considering Malfoy’s blood-purity law for heirs.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Severus, do you really think that Armand Malfoy is going to be ruling the witches and wizards of Britain for much longer?”

He was silent. He had not wanted to acknowledge the ultimate goal behind all of the subversion that he and Merope had engaged in; it was such a dangerous thing, but he could not ignore the fact any longer that Malfoy and Lestrange had to go.

“After the meeting with Regulus tonight, I rather suspect that Orion Black wants Malfoy’s position,” she said. “If so, he’ll have to settle with Lucius Malfoy… but in any case, Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange are not going to last long, I think. And if I’m wrong, then it doesn’t much matter if I am fertile, does it?” she finished darkly.

“Orion Black doesn’t deserve to be the high lord,” Severus snarled. “What has _he_ done? If anything, _you_ should take a leadership mantle against Malfoy.”

“I don’t want to discuss this,” she said abruptly. “At least, not tonight. This has been a long and terrible day, Severus.” She pushed the contract forward. “We need to settle this as soon as we can. We need more than a verbal agreement to marry. We need a formal, magically sworn contract to thwart Malfoy. To that end, we need to negotiate.” She took a deep breath and faced him. “You have always handled accounts for this castle, because you’re so skilled at it. I realize that, because of your faithful service, you have the right to ask for other things too.”

Severus swallowed his bile. Back to the business transaction it was, then. Perhaps it would change, and she would be able to acknowledge her feelings, once she had adjusted to the new reality her destructive son had created for them. “I have no desire to take over your family estate… Merope. I do not care what Malfoy’s law says. We can conduct our private business as we like. You remain the final authority.” He sighed and rubbed his dark eyes, then took the contract and placed it in front of him on the table. “Let me make a contract for us based on this document.”

She nodded. “Yes. Having a binding contract is the most important thing.”

* * *

The time was past midnight when Merope finally sent an owl to Armand Malfoy notifying him of the magically sworn marriage contract that she and Severus had signed that evening. Hermione was in bed—well, in her bed _chamber,_ at least, Merope thought, sipping another glass of wine. Severus had gone to his old bedroom in the castle as well after finishing the contract. He seemed vaguely put out, which did not make a lot of sense to Merope, unless this was not something he actually wanted but was doing out of duty. She fingered the rim of her glass as she entered the library. She had thought that he had feelings for her….

_At least we can work together,_ she thought, crossing the room toward the tall windows to gaze out at the grounds. She remembered what Regulus Black had said of his own marriage. _We’ll be friends, at least. And it may be that he is simply overwhelmed by everything tonight. There is still time. I should not make assumptions._

Comforted, she turned around—and found herself face-to-face with Tom, who was clutching a book to his chest.

“You just sent a letter to someone,” he said. His tone was accusing.

Her eyebrows narrowed. “I sent a letter to Armand Malfoy, in fact,” she said evenly, “notifying him of the contract for a future marriage that Severus and I signed tonight.”

Tom sputtered, almost dropping the book. Merope glanced quickly at the title, which she noticed, with some alarm, was _Blood-Rituals of the Morrighan, Goddess of War._ He caught her looking and pulled it close to his chest again, gazing out defiantly at her. “You and Snape?” he repeated furiously.

“You had better start to treat him with more respect,” she snapped, “because even though we agreed that I will remain ruler of this castle, he will be your stepfather. I will not hear of any objections from you, Tom Riddle,” she added. “You have done quite enough today already.”

Tom glared at her in outrage, huffed, and stormed out of the library, clutching the book of Celtic blood magic as tightly as he could.


	33. A Bitter Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I think this chapter contains some unexpected twists... but don't worry, the new arc introduced in it is going to have what I hope is a satisfying payoff in a few chapters. The next several will be pretty hectic, in fact. Major things are finally happening, so thank you for sticking with this long and winding story as we ease into "Act III" of the narrative.

Tom stayed up late into the night, trying hard not to think about his mother’s decision or the appalling argument he’d had with her. He was not about to tell her, but her words about Hermione had troubled him. He did not want to lose her, especially not to some old pervert Muggle who—in his mother’s harsh words—was looking to “breed,” and he realized that this very likely would be what her parents did if he and Mother reneged on their contract. Why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if they had taken an active interest in her personal welfare. They had hardly seen Hermione since she first started her magical education. _Typical Muggle nobles who don’t care much about their daughters,_ Tom thought with contempt. _Of course they would do that to her._

And yet, he truly did not think that he should scale back his ambitions, the original source of their dispute. His mother was working against Malfoy—that he would grant—but her plans and strategies were all reactive, formulated in response to something Malfoy or Lestrange had done—or that she thought they would do. As far as Tom knew, his mother had no plan for a world without Norman wizards running it. _If Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange are killed, and no alternative is already put forward, then Lucius Malfoy will just replace his grandfather,_ Tom thought.

Tom did not entirely trust Regulus Black either, who was, after all, a Black, even if he had been passing information to Snape. The Black family had positioned itself very well indeed in the beginning of the Norman occupation, with the head of the family seated on the Wizards’ Council. Now that the Council was dissolved, and Lestrange had manipulated Armand Malfoy into murdering Lord Arcturus, it made perfect sense to Tom that they would want not just revenge, but to _replace_ the Malfoys. Tom did not see that as a positive outcome either. The family had been blood-traitors to their English heritage, with their toadying to the invaders.

 _I will not allow my family to be pawns in someone else’s war,_ he thought. _This conflict began because of us, not the Blacks and certainly not the Weasleys, Potters, or Longbottoms. We’re the ones who challenged the status quo; we should lead. But Mother won’t do it, so it is up to me._

Tom turned to the stack of books that he had accumulated in his bedchamber. The urgency of establishing his own claim was greater than ever. He knew now that he could not simply declare himself to be a descendant of Mordred the Dispossessed and expect any witch or wizard in power to respect that. Even for people who could expect to live for over a century, six hundred years was a long time, and so much had happened since then. The basilisk of Slytherin would be useful in battle, but upon reflection, Tom no longer believed that using the threat of horrible death to support his cause was a good idea. It would sound too much like the things that had created the Gaunts’ bad reputation. He had reread the books about the Gaunts’ version of Arthurian history—at some point, his mother had removed the hexes on all of those books, even though the ones about the family history for the next six hundred years were still hexed—and he thought he knew what he had to do.

 _Magical artifacts were incredibly important,_ he thought, pacing around his room. _The sword Excalibur recognized Arthur’s bloodline. The Holy Grail may or may not have been a real artifact, but it was important to them too. Then, too, my people as a whole have long recognized the Thirteen Hallows of Britain…._

Based on one of the books, _The Dispossessed Children of the Wizard-King,_ the Gaunt family had a connection to some sort of highly significant magical artifact from long ago. The writer—the _historian,_ Tom thought—was Hywel Gant, an eighth-century lord from the family itself, so it seemed highly credible to Tom. The family had several scholars, he reflected. Lord Hywel… and Lady Dunwen Mac Gant from the seventh century, to start with. He thought about what his mother had told him that night. They might indeed have practiced incest, and some of them might indeed have been mad—apparently, his own uncle and grandfather were among those—but others were geniuses.

It was not clear what the magical object might be, or how old it was, but it seemed to be associated with a sea cave on the southwestern coast. The cave itself was rumored to have magical properties. According to Lord Hywel, the cave was where Princess Ceridwyn, the secret daughter of Mordred, apprentice of her grandmother Lady Morgana, and ancestor of all the Gaunts, had hidden after the disaster of the Battle of Camlann. She had supposedly placed the artifact there. Later, Lord Hywel had written, a legend had sprung up around it, with several variations but the same general theme.

The legend was that the artifact would reveal itself only to the one who would restore the old line. The details varied: Some versions held that Princess Ceridwyn had been a Seer herself and had prophesied this; others said she had received a prophecy to this effect from someone else who was, perhaps her father or grandmother—or even that her mysterious mother, whose identity was now lost to time, was the Seer. Most tellings, according to Hywel, stated that the discoverer of the object would be the new lord of English wizards.

 _If I can get this object,_ Tom thought, _then perhaps that will be proof enough of my right to rule._ He thought he knew where the sea cave was, based on that book and an atlas of magical sites. It would be difficult to get it after school started again, and in any case, did he _really_ want to be here right now? Snape had never liked him, he thought grouchily. He was not sure he could stand the smug looks that Snape would have now—and he certainly was not going to admit this to his mother, but he was irritated that the Malfoys had manipulated Wilkes’s father. Best to have something _productive_ to do, a real goal to seek, for the next few days.

Tom stopped pacing and began to pack for a journey. He would get a little sleep tonight, but he did not intend to be there when Mother woke up in the morning. His serpent familiar, Dunlaith—the very one Hermione had given him, he thought with a pang—curled around his wrist. He decided to allow it. He would not be bringing her with him either; it would not be safe for a small snake to be around sea caves, so he supposed he might as well let his familiar stay near him for now.

* * *

The wind whipped around Tom’s robes as he Apparated. On one side, the brightest stars twinkled in a sea of deep blues, and an array of cliffs tumbled lethally to a rocky coast and crashing waves. On the other side, grassy rolling hills gave way to a red dawn that was taking shape. This was approximately the place, but Tom did not have any guidance from his books about exactly where this sea cave was supposed to be. There could be any number of sea caves in those cliffs. They might even be magically concealed—in fact, the crucial one almost certainly would be. Tom would have to rely on his innate ability to detect traces of magic.

With a sigh, he turned to face the dark side of the sky and walked to the edge of one of the cliffs. It was a long way to the bottom. Salty white seafoam poured over the rocks as waves crashed. Tom shivered. Whatever else he did, he would certainly have to anchor himself magically to the cliffside as he explored the area.

* * *

“Lord Thomas is not here,” the house-elf said to Merope. “He left a letter for your ladyship on his desk.” The elf held out a sealed note to Merope.

Merope exchanged a glance with Severus that was both annoyed and concerned. “Very well,” she said, accepting the letter. “I will see what he has to say for himself. I hope he hasn’t done anything else foolish.” She opened the note and read it.

 

_To Mother, Lady Hermione, and Lord Severus._

_I am going to be away for the next two days. Know that I am not going to do anything like the recent incident, and in fact, I don’t expect my travels to take me near people at all. I am researching an important piece of magical history. If I do not return by the third day, a description and map of the place I am going will appear on my writing desk. Mother, do not try to make this map appear early. If you do, it won’t work and may destroy the spell. I want to be alone for this period of time._

 

Merope scowled. “I don’t know what he thinks he is going to find, but this appears very much to me as though he’s ashamed of himself and doesn’t want to face us.” She handed it to Severus.

He scanned it quickly. “Perhaps so. Maybe he _should_ have some time alone to think about things, though,” he said. “Are you sure you have no idea what he might be looking for?”

She considered, grimacing as a very unpleasant idea occurred to her. “I’m sure—unless it is the Chamber of Slytherin.”

Severus’s eyes widened. “That is said to be in Hogwarts.”

“I know. And what is said to be _inside_ it… well, I hope that’s not what he is doing.”

“He can’t get into the school when it’s closed,” Severus reassured her. “Only the High Master can. If that’s what he’s looking for, he may come back sooner than he thinks.” He returned the note to Merope.

They went into the family dining room, where Hermione was standing and waiting for them. The family owl had already delivered the post, and she was obviously eager to take her seat and open the letter that the creature had dropped at her place setting. Merope smiled indulgently as they entered.

“Good morning,” she said to Hermione, sitting down. Severus and Hermione herself followed. Merope smiled at the house-elf who brought breakfast to them.

“Are we not going to wait for Tom?” Hermione spoke up.

Merope sighed. “Tom is not here,” she said.

Startled, Hermione dropped her knife. “Is he all right?” she exclaimed. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He left a note saying that he was going to be away for two days to ‘research’ something. What I suspect is that he just wants some time to himself. He is a sixteen-year-old boy who has just done something hugely consequential—and I think it must have bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He is very proud, as you know. I think it’s best to grant him this.”

Hermione looked crestfallen for a moment, but then her face hardened. “Very well,” she said. “There is something I need to tell you about, though.” She looked down at her plate. “Something he has mentioned to me before—something I don’t like _at all.”_

“Has he mentioned Slytherin’s secret chamber to you?”

Hermione gaped at Merope for a moment, but in the next moment, she realized that of course Tom’s mother was wise to some of his interests. “He has,” she admitted, “and I worry that that’s what this is.”

“If it is, he cannot get into it. The school is closed, and only Albus Dumbledore can unlock the gates. I really think he just wants to get away from all of us for the time being, Hermione,” she said reassuringly. “He has a lot to think about, and he knows it. For boys that age, it is often easier to think about uncomfortable truths alone.”

Hermione seemed to accept this, reassured by Merope’s assertion that Tom could not get into Hogwarts.

Pointedly Severus glanced sideways at Merope. She met his eyes and nodded briefly. “I also need to inform you… Lord Severus and I have decided to marry.”

Hermione gasped, then quickly closed her mouth. “I—am surprised,” she managed. _“Pleased,_ of course, but this is so unexpected!”

“Yes—to all of us, I think,” Merope said, glancing wryly at him. He did not return the smile. She wondered at that, then turned back to Hermione. “But it is true. We think we will marry some time in October.”

“Well, congratulations!” Hermione said, smiling. “Does Tom know?”

“He does. I saw him in the library late and told him.”

Suddenly Hermione found it a lot more believable that Tom really did just want to get away from the castle for a little bit. That news could _not_ have gone over well with him, but if her sudden suspicion was right, Lady Merope and Lord Severus had decided to do this as a direct result of Tom’s killing of his father. Probably there was some sort of vile scheme that Armand Malfoy had in mind, a forced marriage to someone loyal to him, and this was a way to thwart it. It was a good thing that Lady Merope and Lord Severus liked each other, Hermione thought.

She glanced at the letter next to her plate, which bore her mother’s name and the Granger family seal, as she quickly ate her breakfast.

Merope seemed to understand what was going through her head. “You are excused, my dear,” she said. “Of course you want to read your mother’s letter. Severus and I have to discuss some things anyway.”

Gratefully Hermione rose from the table, letter in hand, and made her exit.

* * *

Hermione tossed her letter aside with wretched disappointment—and dare she think it, disgust. Her mother had meant well, but the advice that Lady Granger had given was useless.

 

_My dear daughter,_

_I regret to hear of the difficulties that you have had with your betrothed. However, remember that we women are called to bear this burden and to support and comfort our husbands. This is the strength of our sex. I implore you to take comfort and courage in this fact, to forgive Lord Thomas of any offenses against you, to ask him to forgive your own offenses, and to do what you know is your duty to him. You have always been a very compassionate and dutiful young lady, and I have no doubt that you can do this. I have shared your letter with your lord father and he agrees with me._

_Your devoted mother._

 

Hermione flung herself on her bed in irritation. She really wanted to set fire to that letter… but she was sure she would regret it if she did, not because of the content, but because it _was_ from her mother and she had so little correspondence from her family already. _Do I even know them anymore?_ she asked herself in despair. A chill spread over her body at the realization that, perhaps, she no longer did. The world of the magical aristocracy—no, she thought, of witches and wizards altogether—was very different to that of Muggles like them. There were different values and ways of thinking. Hermione had always believed that her family was more open-minded than most Muggles of their class, and likely they were, but witches and wizards were still a world apart. Three years ago, Hermione did not doubt that she would have agreed completely with her mother’s words, and taken all of the burden of making amends upon herself… but she was different now, and she knew that the lion’s share of this fight was _not_ her fault. She also knew that what Tom needed was not to be coddled and reinforced in the very pattern of behavior that had caused the problem.

 _I cannot depend on others to tell me what I should do,_ she thought. _I have to figure this one out myself… or, perhaps—_ her mind resisted the thought for a moment, but only a moment— _I have to accept once and for all that I cannot fix Tom’s problems for him. There is no magic spell for this. He has to make the change himself._

How long would it take, though? In a year, they would be married—unless, of course, he asked his mother to break the contract and she agreed. Hermione hoped he still felt enough for her that he wouldn’t do _that,_ at least. As long as he still felt something, they had a chance.

She heaved a sigh. It was better to put this out of her mind. She would return to Hogwarts soon, anyway, and she resolved to focus on her studies and her friends. She wondered what news Harry, Neville, and Luna might have to report—and Ginny, too, if she had learned anything. They would get to the bottom of what the adult Friends of the Founders were really doing, Hermione decided. The logical solution was for the Friends to join forces with Lady Merope, her allies, and Lord Regulus Black, she decided. Were they not all united in opposing Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange? Surely whatever differences the groups might have could be put aside in service of that goal. Hermione hoped that would happen over the course of the year.

* * *

The discussion Merope had had with Severus had not gone very smoothly. She had realized that her manner the previous evening had been abrupt and the proceedings themselves businesslike and cold, but Severus had been _so_ chilly this morning about the entire subject that she wondered if perhaps it was best to let him resolve his own anger first before talking about emotional issues related to the prospective marriage.

“I understand it was very sudden,” she had said as they parted after breakfast, “and I do apologize for that… but please remember that we were under serious threat last night, based on Lord Regulus’s report.”

Severus had smiled thinly. “Of course, my lady.” Merope had wanted to correct him and tell him to use her name, but she doubted that correction was what he wanted to hear right at the moment. She let him pass. He left Parselhall and headed in the direction of the Prince family manor on the grounds.

Standing in the grand hall, Merope sighed as he left and the great doors clanged shut. This was an inauspicious beginning, and all her hopes for the future did not allay that ugly fact about the present. Merope wondered if she had any right anymore to criticize Tom for his dispute with Hermione. Perhaps it was best just to do things as many other noble families did, and focus on marriages for political alliances and family continuance alone. Perhaps involving emotional or romantic considerations at all, even in combination with those more worldly concerns, was asking for trouble.

 _And perhaps I am being too cynical,_ she thought, cracking a smile. _Severus will come around, I’ve no doubt of it. I just need to give him more time._

She turned to head to her own quarters when she noticed a pudgy, short wizard in brown velvet standing nearby. His eyes were pleading for her attention. “My lady!” wheezed Peter Pettigrew.

Merope still was not sure exactly what to make of Pettigrew’s presence at such a time. Perhaps it was entirely coincidental… but she did wonder what, _precisely,_ he had been doing for all these years. She did not blame him for leaving, after what her brother had done to his poor mother… but he had still avoided his duties while knowing that she presided. He would certainly have to prove his loyalty to her.

“Yes, Pettigrew?” she said loftily.

His eyes darted around the grand hall. “Forgive me for nosing into your personal business, your ladyship,” he muttered, “but there is something that Lord Severus is not telling you. Something _important.”_

Suspicion instantly flared up inside her at this statement—but at Pettigrew rather than Snape. “Oh, indeed? And just how, pray, do you know of—whatever this is?”

Pettigrew winced and wrung his hands. Merope attempted not to focus on the disfiguring injury on one hand, the missing finger. “I have known him for years, my lady,” he said. “We served here together. I knew him from boyhood. And… there is something that he did, years ago, that I don’t know if he has ever admitted to you. Well, several things, all related.”

Merope scowled. “We shall have this conversation privately, Pettigrew,” she said, exiting the grand hall and leading the way to a sitting room. Pettigrew hurried behind her trailing skirts. A grin formed on his face.

* * *

Tom reached the base of the cliffs. Sea spray had already soaked him to the bone, or so it felt. He certainly would have tumbled to his death if he had not sealed the grip of his hands and feet with magic. His heart was thumping hard and fast as he jumped off and landed on his feet at the surface. He gazed outward. The sky, at least, was bright now. Waves continued to crash against the rocky shore. In the distance, the horizon became absolutely flat, the deep dark blue of the sea extending seemingly to infinity. _Where would you land if you just kept going?_ Tom idly wondered, but only for a moment.

He turned around and gazed at the expanse of rock that now stretched scores of feet into the air, the cliffs down which he had just climbed. Tom still had no idea where the sea cave might be. Worst case, he would have to walk the coastline until his magic sense told him.

 _No,_ he corrected himself grimly, _worst case is that there are several magical spots along these cliffs._

He sighed and turned south. He hoped that was the right direction. If not, he would have to backtrack after a long and unproductive journey.

* * *

Pettigrew fidgeted before Merope, who gazed down at him expressionlessly. “I suppose I had better give you the story from the beginning,” he finally said.

“I suppose so,” she agreed.

He winced, then attempted to gather his courage to speak to her. “I suppose the worst mistake I made was to become friends with Black and Potter at Hogwarts, instead of Snape.”

Merope raised her eyebrows. “Black? Sirius Black, the family outcast?”

“The very one,” Pettigrew affirmed. “But I couldn’t help it, Lady Merope! I was put in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin like Severus—and yourself, when you went later.”

Merope nodded. She was four years younger than Severus and had shared only one year at Hogwarts with him.

“When Black ran away from his family, he went to live with Potter’s family in Godric’s Hollow. What I didn’t know was that the two of them got up to no good during Christmas and summertime. There is a werewolf living in the woods near Godric’s Hollow—”

Merope gasped in surprise. “A werewolf? Is it Fenrir, my former vassal? I heard that he was deliberately infected with lycanthropy as punishment from my father or brother.”

Pettigrew shook his head. “No, your ladyship, but they think that he was _turned_ by your family’s former vassal. This fellow… well, he became friends with Black and Potter. That was why they became Animagi: They wanted to prowl in the forest safely with him.”

“And yourself?” she said harshly.

Pettigrew winced again and looked down at his lap. “With all due respect, my lady, they never knew that I became one. I wasn’t invited along—and after all, I was sworn to your family. I had to be here when I wasn’t at Hogwarts. But I learned the skill by watching them. I suppose I was just envious. Didn’t want them to do something I couldn’t do.”

“Envious… and resentful?” she pressed. “I understand, Pettigrew. It must have been frustrating to watch your friends from school behave so, while you had duties to a lord that you quite justly disliked. But what has this to do with Lord Severus?”

“Well, they made a special point of tormenting Lord Severus, I am sorry to say. I think it was because he was a Slytherin… or sworn to your family. There is still a lot of enmity.”

“I do know that,” she said slowly. “He has mentioned it before.”

“And yet it wasn’t enough to prevent him from going to Godric’s Hollow in 1130 when the town revolted against the Malfoys,” Pettigrew said in a flourish, furtively eyeing her for her reaction to that.

Merope blinked. “He participated in the rebellion against Lucius Malfoy?”

Pettigrew nodded eagerly. “He did indeed. So did I, in fact, your ladyship. I learned about it from Black and Potter. We were all there, masked.”

“Well!” she exclaimed. “I did not know this… he has certainly talked about the uprising before, and I admit it _occurred_ to me that he might have known more about it than he let on, but I could never think of a satisfactory explanation for why he would conceal that from me. We are no friends of the Malfoy family, whereas my son and Lady Hermione _are_ friends with the Potter lad.” She decided not to tell Pettigrew about the alliance with Sirius Black’s brother and possibly the two brothers’ parents.

Pettigrew’s beady eyes gleamed. “I think I may know the reason for that, my lady Merope. And it so happens that it relates to that very Potter lad.”

* * *

Tom cast a healing spell to help his aching feet and turned around. The rocky coastline had given way to a sandy shore. The sea cave that he was looking for was in the other direction.

First, though, he would take a break and eat. He had brought some bread, cheese, and apples, and he could always summon fresh water into being. Choosing a rock that appeared to be blasted with less salt spray than the others, Tom sat down and took out his food.

There must be a magic spell he could cast to help him, he thought in irritation. It wasn’t as though he expected the Cave of Ceridwyn to be marked with a raven or a crown! Someone else would have found it by now if that were the case. But there had to be some way of magically identifying it to the “chosen one” of the ancient artifact.

 _Unless I am not that person._ The treacherous thought flitted through Tom’s brain for a moment. He vanquished it at once. He was meant to find this cave. He knew it.

* * *

Merope gazed back at Pettigrew, who was now meeting her eyes rather boldly—hungrily, she thought. It was a little unsettling.

“Lower your gaze,” she snapped. She had never ordered a vassal to do that, but this strange crawling feeling had never come over her before.

Pettigrew glanced at his lap again. “I apologize, your ladyship. I was going to tell you, there is something that happened while Severus was at Godric’s Hollow, participating in the rebellion. There is a witch… a Muggle-born witch… who is now married to Potter. Lily is her name. They were engaged at the time of the rebellion… he had known her from childhood, and after he had finished at Hogwarts, he returned home and I guess that was when they fell in love. Anyway, Severus….” He trailed off theatrically.

A bad feeling came over Merope. “Severus… what?”

Pettigrew sighed heavily. “I’m sorry to tell you, he seduced her during the rebellion. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but it definitely happened. And if you look at the birthday of young Harry Potter, it’s questionable.”

Merope stared at the fidgety little man before her. She felt queasy, though she could not say if it was because of what Pettigrew had just told her or because of her peculiar unease about the man himself. The entire situation had a certain degree of unreality about it, almost as if someone else were occupying her body and she was just an observer from outside it. “Are you telling me that you think Severus might be the true father of Harry Potter?” she repeated.

Pettigrew nodded importantly. “Lily and James were married a month after the rebellion, so it’s hard to be certain, but it’s a possibility.”

“He never spoke a word,” she said, her voice very low, talking almost to herself. “Does he _know_ this?”

“I don’t see how he couldn’t. He’s a clever wizard, my lady. And the boy does have black hair.” He did not mention the fact that James Potter also did.

Merope rose from her seat, shaking a little. “This woman,” she said, trying to organize her thoughts and speech. “This Lily. What were they… that is to say, do you think he is still… fond of her?”

“That I don’t know, my lady. I do know that he carried a torch for her for many years after, though, right up to the time that my mother was murdered and I ran away.”

Merope’s heart sank. All of a sudden, Severus’s strange behavior to her had a very different explanation, and one that would be much harder to overcome than annoyance over the transactional nature of the proceedings last night. She took a deep breath and turned to Pettigrew, rising from her seat. He quickly followed suit. “I thank you for telling me this,” she said haltingly. “You have shown loyalty by doing so. Lord Severus has talked about the Godric’s Hollow rebellion, but he never mentioned that he took part in it, and he certainly said nothing about seducing a betrothed woman and possibly fathering a child.”

Pettigrew bowed low. “I merely serve you, my lady.”

“Nonetheless,” she said, taking another deep breath, “he deserves the chance to explain himself. I will think about this and bring it up with him later today, when he comes to the castle for dinner.”

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Tom stood outside a great mouth of a cave. His magic sense was prickling, which told him that there was _something_ magical in this area. Whether it was the ancient artifact, he could not be sure, but this place had known magic. This was the best lead he had so far.

The only problem was that Tom could see the back of the cave. It was a shelter from the elements, but it was not much more than that. _Still,_ he thought, _it’s possible that there is a deeper cave behind this one. Perhaps the magic I sense here is a ward to hide an inner cave._ Pleased with this idea, Tom began to explore the periphery of this shallow cave along every side. He kept his wand out and his mind focused on the input from his magic sense, rather than his ordinary physical senses, so that he would not miss anything. The tide was coming in, but Tom could leave if it started to threaten him.

As he had expected, there were no markings along the walls. Whatever witch or wizard—or intelligent magical creature—had used this cave in the past, they had not left a physical indicator of it. However, that did not mean there weren’t signs for a person attuned to magic to read. As Tom examined the walls on all three closed sides of the cave, he reached a spot where the amount of magic that he was detecting increased. It was almost imperceptible, but it was definitely there. His heart rate picked up and a grin formed on his face as he followed the lead. It led upward at a diagonal to the left, culminating in a spot that, to Tom, almost pulsed with magic.

 _This is important,_ he thought, running his hand and wand across that spot on the rock wall. _This is an opening to something, a ward. But how to use it?_

The _thump, thump_ of the spell pounded through Tom’s magic sense. _Thump-thump, thump-thump…._

Pulsing with magic… _pulsing…_.

In a flash of inspiration, Tom knew what he had to do. He supposed he should have known; his ancestors had done this all the time. He opened his left palm and cast a hex, slicing his skin open. Wincing, he pressed the wound against the throbbing magical blood ward. The rock wall slid away as if commanded, leaving a gaping black chasm. The fading daylight filtered inside, revealing a continued bank of solid ground, then what appeared to be rippling water—and _something_ glowing balefully in the center, green and cold. _The artifact,_ Tom thought excitedly. He healed his hand and cast a spell to illuminate the tip of his wand, then entered the inner cave.

* * *

Severus was not happy about this discussion. “I never claimed that I was not part of the Godric’s Hollow rebellion!” he exclaimed. Merope sat across the table, regarding him with a cool expression on her face. She had invited Pettigrew to dine with them privately in the small family dining room that evening, and he was clearly enjoying himself.

Hermione was horrified. She wished she had not been included in this… but, she supposed, she _was_ old enough for such a discussion; she would be sixteen in a month. It would also be unseemly for Merope to exclude _her_ from an adult conversation, singling her out as a “child,” after having such a long adult talk with Tom the night before. Still, this was painful to witness on more than one level.

“Lady Merope,” she pleaded. “Harry is one of my best friends at Hogwarts. He looks nothing like Lord Severus! I have never seen any of his family, but I’m sure that he really is a Potter.”

“That may be, and legally he is certainly the son of James Potter, since his parents were married,” she said, eyeing Snape darkly. “Although I certainly have personal reasons to object to parents who abandon their children, young Harry did have two parents to raise him, so that is not the issue.” She gazed hard at Snape’s black eyes. “When were you intending to tell me that you were in the rebellion? And _were_ you intending to tell me that you had a brief romance there—if that’s the proper term for such a thing?” she added.

“I would have told you any time you asked,” he said. “The uprising was so many years ago, though… it just never seemed important.”

That was a mistake. “Not _important?”_ Merope said, the pitch of her voice rising sharply. “To the contrary, Severus, I think all of this is _extremely_ important.”

“What I want to know is why _he_ never said he was part of it, either,” Severus snarled, glaring darkly at Peter Pettigrew. He turned on the smaller man. “You told me about it! You are the only reason I even found out—and you said that night that you ‘had duties at the castle’! Now you claim you were _there—_ and I suppose you must have been, since you know about me and Lily!”

“Severus,” Merope began sharply.

“Were you lurking in a hole in the wall as a filthy rat all along?” he snapped. “Is that how you know?”

“Severus, that’s quite enough,” she said. “Pettigrew has not _been_ here for the past three years.”

“And I have some questions about _that,_ too.”

“You questioned him under truth serum already. He has told me the truth immediately, on the first full day of his service to me,” she added pointedly. “I repeat my question to you: When were you planning to tell me about your part in this uprising and your relationship with this woman?”

“The ‘relationship’ was over within a week! And again, my lady Merope, I would have told you I was part of the rebellion any time you asked.”

“That is simply not true. You said once that ‘no one knew’ who was part of it, because they were all masked,” she said, her words harsh as she remembered. “It was two years ago, the summer after Hermione’s first year at Hogwarts.” She thought about it. “You even mentioned the fact that Black and Potter held you in contempt for serving my family, who were allies of Malfoy.”

Severus grimaced. “I never _lied_ to you, my lady.”

“I think that you have been involved in intrigue a bit too long, Severus,” she said coldly. “How many secrets from your past have come out lately? I won’t repeat them all, but you have kept them from me for quite some time, and you only revealed them because outside circumstances forced it. The accounts… my brother… and now this. I have to ask, what do I still not know? What else lurks in your past? It’s clear that you do not trust me, or you would have told me these things of your own accord long ago. You mustn’t keep secrets from me if we are to… work together.”

“With all due respect, my lady, this sounds very similar to what you told me your son said to _you_ last night,” he burst out. As soon as he did—as soon as he saw her eyes fly wide open in surprise—he knew that it was a bad idea, but it was too late now.

“I suggest you think long about what you would like our future together to be like, Lord Severus,” she said crisply, rising from her seat.

“Merope!” The name burst from his lips almost involuntarily as she left the room.

Hermione wanted to get out of the room as quickly as she could. This was awful, and she wished she had not witnessed it. It reminded her in a horrible way of her own troubles with Tom. How could she face either of them now, after this? She wished, in a way, that she _was_ still a child, so that she would be shielded from things like this. She rose from her seat quickly and gave Severus a look as sympathetic as she could muster, but the resentment in his face hurried her out the door.

Severus turned to Pettigrew. “You vile wretch,” he hissed. “What is your game? You come here—you turn up after _years_ of being missing—and the first thing you do is put a wedge between us?” He rose from his seat and stalked across the room to where Pettigrew sat, towering menacingly over the wizard. “What is your _game,_ rat?” He lowered his voice. “Were you the one who told Malfoy that I had poisoned Morfin Gaunt?”

“Of course I wasn’t!” Pettigrew exclaimed. “How could you even think that?”

“Easily,” he said through clenched teeth. “There are damned few people who were in a position to know. There was supposedly an _eyewitness!_ That’s what we heard from….” He broke off at once, glaring.

“It wasn’t me!” Pettigrew whined. “The Carrows work for Lestrange now, don’t they? It was obviously one of them! How can you think it was me?”

Severus glared furiously at the fidgety little man before him. “It may have been the Carrows,” he acknowledged. “They are proven traitors, after all. But that doesn’t mean I trust _you._ Do you imagine that her ladyship will pick _you_ instead of me, because of this? Is _that_ your scheme?”

Merope reappeared in the doorway. She glared at him. “Leave him, Severus. He is merely the messenger in this.”

Severus wanted to continue, but he was not about to disobey her. With a glare of pure hatred at Pettigrew, he stormed out of the room.

* * *

Tom stood at the side of the basin. He had managed to find a magically concealed boat and navigate the lake, which was ghastly cold, but he was at a dead end now. He was not about to drink the glowing green potion before him. Anything that looked like that _had_ to be a poison. He had already tried to vanish it, to reduce the amount of it, to scoop it up and cast it away, to transform it into something, _anything_ else. It was resistant to everything he had tried.

And yet Tom was certain that this bowl held the mysterious artifact that he had read about. There was something at the bottom; he just knew it. His instinct told him so… but he was not going to drink that potion. That was a trap, he was quite certain. The chosen one just had to figure out how to get through it—the right spell, the right answer to the puzzle, whatever it might be. There was always some challenge of that kind in legends of a hero’s journey. He had not hit upon the right answer yet, was all.

 _Maybe I can take some of the potion with me to analyze at home,_ he thought suddenly. _Once I know what it is, I can devise a way to defeat it._ He conjured a potions flask and scooped up a small amount of the sinisterly glowing potion, noting with interest that it seemed to turn transparently green and stopped reflecting once it was inside the flask. He placed the glass object in his pack and turned aside regretfully. At least there was no magic in this cave that would seal it against a repeat visit. He could come back again later, and he would. He would be prepared next time, too.

* * *

Hermione paced around her room anxiously. She was deeply troubled by the fight between Severus and Merope. She had observed them for three years, ever since she came here to be fostered. It was obvious to her that they liked each other. They should not let something like this come between them! There was enough misery in other people’s relationships already, she thought morosely, her thoughts shifting to Tom. She hoped he was all right.

 _Tom can take care of himself,_ she reassured herself. _He will be fine. Maybe he will even be willing to talk to me when he returns. In the meantime, I wish there was something I could do to help Lord Severus and Lady Merope._

She sat down at her desk and tried to think. She had promised to Severus that she would not tell anyone about those memories of attraction to Merope that she had seen during the Occlumency lessons last summer. There would be consequences for breaking a magical promise… but perhaps this was an occasion when she should do it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comment of Snape's that Merope alludes to occurred in chapter 14. (I had to look up the precise location of it myself; I'm not that good. ;-) ) This story is far and away the longest I've ever written, and I think it still has about 100,000 words to go!


	34. A Witch's Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! I apologize for the length of, well, virtually every chapter that I post now, but a lot is happening and I don't want to make you guys wait even longer for the Merope/Snape wedding or the Tom/Hermione reconciliation, which would happen if I broke up the chapters into shorter ones.

The following day, Severus locked himself in his manor house to—well, to brood, but also to try to work out some things about Peter Pettigrew that were troubling him. So much was happening at once, and it was complicating his analysis, which was normally very much on target for any situation. This was harder to puzzle out. What was coincidental and what wasn’t? What were the _facts?_

Well, it was a fact that Rodolphus Lestrange had bullied the father of one of Tom’s friends into tricking his son to tell Tom about Sir Thomas Riddle. This was very likely Wilkes, since his visit had occurred right before Tom had stormed away to confront his father. _And based on what Regulus Black said, the boy’s father is dead as well, killed by the people he was serving,_ Severus thought. That plot was obviously a way to release Merope from her magically-sworn wedding vows. They had thwarted it, had they not? Or was Pettigrew’s arrival part of a scheme to tear apart the couple?

Although Severus was generally inclined to be wary, he just could not reach that conclusion based on the available evidence. Pettigrew had turned up the day that Tom had gone to confront his father, which was suspicious, but he had told Merope about Godric’s Hollow and Lily the day after. He could not have sent an owl to anyone in that space of time asking what to do in response to their quick betrothal, because he was locked in the guest wing of the castle, and Merope’s strong wards on the castle prevented anyone from sending owls except people she had approved. For Pettigrew’s arrival to have been part of a grand Malfoy-Lestrange scheme to keep Merope single, they would have had to have known about the possibility of a match between Severus and Merope well in advance and sent him there with instructions to drive them apart. It didn’t seem plausible at all. But, most importantly, Pettigrew himself would have had to have been serving Malfoy and Lestrange as a loyal agent.

It wasn’t impossible, Severus thought, but he could not come up with a logical reason for _why_ Pettigrew would do such a thing. He hated the dead Gaunts—fine. But why go to the _Malfoys?_ He had never said anything in Severus’s presence suggesting agreement with the Malfoy family’s extreme blood-purist and pro-Norman views. Furthermore, at Hogwarts, he had been friends with the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black, who were unhappy subjects of a Malfoy. What would Pettigrew’s motive have been to turn against _them?_ Severus could not come up with one, and in the absence of that, he had to shelve that idea.

Could he be operating as a lone wolf, gathering information for any “patron” who seemed interested, but not truly be on anyone’s side except his own? That seemed more plausible to Severus. Despite Pettigrew’s denial, Severus was still half convinced that Pettigrew had told Malfoy and Lestrange about his poisoning of Morfin Gaunt. For some people, coin would be motive enough to spill interesting information.

 _Let’s see,_ Severus thought. _How would the sequence go? Pettigrew left the Gaunt family’s service five years ago, after they murdered his mother. That is a fact. However, he still could have had access to the castle, because Morfin Gaunt was a fool who was incapable of warding it effectively, and since I’m not a member of the family, I couldn’t do it unless he let me. In theory, Pettigrew could have returned as a rat and seen me making the poison three years ago. He didn’t care about Gaunt, certainly—but because he had palled about with Potter and Black, he had sucked on the venom they spread about me and had no loyalty to me either. But if he told Malfoy, it was not immediate. He would have held the information until pretty recently. Yes—this fits. It does not require him to be truly loyal to Malfoy, just opportunistic. This could be true. And self-centered opportunism explains perfectly well why he would tell Merope about what happened in Godric’s Hollow._

The suspicious timing of Pettigrew’s arrival was tougher. Severus really did not want to resort to coincidence as the explanation, but the alternative before him was indeed that Pettigrew had been ordered to come as an agent for someone. _Could it be someone else?_ Severus thought. _Someone other than Armand Malfoy? If he is an opportunist, it could be. What about the Longbottoms and others associated with Dumbledore? The Longbottoms’ oath to Dumbledore provoked Malfoy to declare that the High Master of Hogwarts may not accept the oath of fealty from anyone other than the other masters. They have some other endgame… but would that group gain anything by dividing Merope from me? Or dividing the Potters, for that matter? They are also part of that general alliance. Is Lily a problem somehow?_

Severus dismissed this thinking; there simply was not enough evidence to initiate a serious theory. _Could it be coincidence after all? Could it really be as simple as that—that Pettigrew heard of Merope’s decent and honorable rule, decided to give his old home another chance, and is simply trying to rise in her esteem by whatever means necessary?_ That seemed plausible too.

Severus rose from his seat, his forehead furrowing in thought. Whatever the truth might be, Pettigrew really should not be allowed unfettered access to the castle yet. It irritated him to no end that the rat was ingratiating himself to Merope based on his “honesty” after three years of avoiding his duties. An opportunistic information-gatherer would have all kinds of stories to tell about anyone he had observed, and as a rat, Pettigrew would have been in the position to observe virtually anyone who had not warded their dwelling against him. With a treasure trove of facts about various people, some of which would be blackmail material, he could pass himself off as “loyal” to anyone he wanted while playing people against each other and serving himself alone. _That_ made sense to Severus—and although it was not as dangerous as having an outright agent for the enemy living in the castle, it still was not a situation that should continue unchecked.

 _Merope’s weakness is her lack of sworn magical vassals,_ Severus thought. _Other than Pettigrew, I’m it. She has allies now—though apparently one of them was a traitor and is dead now—but they are not here, on the grounds. It’s so bad that we had to give carefully bespelled objects to the Muggle village leaders for defensive purposes. She won’t like it if I advise her to turn him off the grounds, but there must be something that can be done._

He sat back down to think more.

* * *

Tom Apparated outside the main gates of the castle. The potion that he had gathered rested safely inside the stoppered flask. He would analyze it and then determine his course of action based on the results. Whatever was at the bottom of that basin would be his.

“You are back early,” Merope said coolly to him once he presented himself to her.

He gazed at her with an expressionless visage and offered a curt nod. “I reached the end of what I could do with the resources I had.”

“And what does _that_ mean?” she asked. “Did you attempt to get into Hogwarts to find the Chamber of Slytherin?”

Tom was momentarily startled. He eyed his mother. “Hermione told you about that, did she?”

Merope was not inclined to betray Hermione’s confidence, especially since she had thought of it independently herself. “Hermione didn’t have to,” she said sharply. “I know that you are interested in family legends. Was that what you were doing?”

For a moment, Tom was tempted to lie and tell her yes. It was a decent cover story. However, he realized at once that she would scold him about it. “No, it wasn’t,” he said. “I didn’t go north. I was interested in our ancestors who lived in the southwest of England and in Wales.”

Merope studied him for a moment before deciding that he was telling her the truth. “Very well, then. I hope you also thought about what I told you.”

 _And she scolds me anyway,_ Tom thought with a surge of frustration. Suddenly he just wanted her to let him go about his business, without further questioning or comment. “I didn’t spare it one second, actually,” he shot back defiantly.

Merope’s eyes popped wide, and her nostrils flared. “That’s it. I am sick of your lip these days, Tom. Go to your room,” she snapped.

Smirking to himself once he was out of her line of sight, Tom headed upstairs. That was exactly what he had wanted her to say, but he would stop in the castle’s potions laboratory first.

* * *

The castle had a Pensieve in the library, a beautiful bowl of copper that had turned green with age. The sides were chased with Celtic knotwork and sculptings of creatures both fantastic and mundane. There were curiously few snakes, Hermione observed, before remembering that Parseltongue had entered the Gaunt line only in the past hundred and fifty years. This bowl was much older than that. Hermione stood beside it, waiting for Merope’s arrival. She had asked the older witch to meet her in the library, before this object, because of something that she wanted to show Merope. That was all that she would say.

The doors to the library creaked open, and Merope entered quietly. She closed the doors behind her and walked over to the spot where Hermione stood over the Pensieve. Frustration was written in every line of her face, Hermione noticed with some dismay, but as she approached, she attempted to put on a smile.

“This Pensieve is beautiful,” Hermione remarked in a low voice, attempting to be diplomatic and pleasant. She was suddenly very concerned that Merope, with the annoyance that she already felt, would regard this as a grossly inappropriate imposition.

The smile blossomed on Merope’s face. “Thank you,” she said. “It is, isn’t it?” She paused, feeling vaguely nostalgic. “When I first decided to claim my title and return to this castle, I had forgotten about the beauty and scholarship inside its walls. Well—not _forgotten,_ exactly, but other, less pleasant memories had taken over.”

“I didn’t mean—” Hermione began to say.

“No, don’t worry,” Merope reassured her. “I’m merely musing aloud.” She raised her eyebrows at Hermione. “Did you happen to overhear what I said about my family when I… argued with Tom the night before last?”

Hermione shook her head. “You don’t have to repeat it to me if it’s that unpleasant.” She gazed over the copper bowl anxiously.

Merope understood. “Of course, you wanted to show me something! I won’t dwell on it now, but you have obviously heard over the past three years that some members of my family were wicked people. They did not appreciate these books”—she gestured around the library—“or these ancient magical artifacts. But the complete history of the Gaunts is more subtle. There were the wicked and the mad… and then there were the brilliant and visionary. The family history is complicated… and even some of those brilliant and visionary ones did things we consider wrong now.” A thoughtful frown appeared on her face. “Most _people_ are complicated, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Hermione said eagerly, taking out her wand and pointing it at her temple. “They are… and that is exactly why I was going to let you see this one memory in particular.” She hesitated. “It happened to me when I was learning Occlumency from Lord Severus last summer. I realize that what I’m showing you may seem meddlesome, and I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t….” She trailed off, breaking her gaze with Merope. “After what happened between Tom and me, I just can’t….”

Merope thought she understood. She waited as Hermione withdrew the silver thread of memory and placed it in the basin. Hermione stepped back and looked down, her face visibly flushed. Feeling compassion for the young witch, though not expecting to see anything as significant as Hermione obviously believed it to be, Merope stepped forward and leaned over the basin.

The memory swirled into an image of the room in the castle in which Hermione’s Occlumency lessons had taken place. From Hermione’s perspective, Merope watched as Severus scowled at Hermione, not in anger, but in concentration. Hermione was reliving that ugly event from her first week at Hogwarts, the one in which the Lestrange girl attacked her, and she was trying her best to prevent Severus from seeing it. At a point in the memory, the fuzzy images of Lestrange and Hogwarts dissolved away, leaving Severus in clear profile, gazing into Hermione’s light brown eyes with his dark ones. Then—Merope almost jerked out of the Pensieve at this shift—it was as though Hermione was the one performing Legilimency. Her field of vision seemed to shoot through Severus’s pupils, leaving her memory-self—and Merope beside her in the Pensieve—observing Severus’s thoughts.

Hermione’s memory-self gazed upon an image of Severus sitting at his desk. He was thinking hard about something—and Merope gasped as Hermione delved deeper into Severus’s thoughts in this moment. He was focused on… on _her,_ Merope realized. He wanted to please her, to make her happy, to make her trust him… to make her _care_ for him.

To make her love him.

The greatest day of his life was the day she had restored the title that had been so cruelly stripped away by her family. That was the day that he knew he might have a real chance with her. Then, later, Hermione’s memory-self—and, now, Merope—experienced the unhappiness he felt when Merope refused to consider annulling her marriage vows to Sir Thomas due to the unknown personal repercussions of breaking a vow and the fact that it would harm Tom. Severus had understood, though.

All this time, Merope realized, he had understood, and had been patient with the political considerations that kept interfering with the relationship that he wanted to initiate with her.

Merope drew away from the Pensieve, her eyes wide with surprise. She breathed deeply, gazing into the swirling silver, trying to reorder her thoughts. This… changed things. Finally she looked in Hermione’s direction, noticing with regret that Hermione was cringing and wincing.

“Thank you for showing me this,” Merope said, trying to comfort Hermione. “I did not know… Severus is very good at concealing his emotions….”

“Whatever he may have felt for Harry Potter’s mother sixteen years ago, I don’t think he cares about her now,” Hermione whispered, unable to meet Merope’s eyes. “There was nothing about her in that.”

“No,” Merope agreed, overwhelmed. “There wasn’t.”

“He should have told you the truth about Godric’s Hollow,” she said quietly, “but please, I hope you can forgive him. I can’t stand seeing….” She broke off again, tears in her eyes.

Merope moved to Hermione and enveloped her in her arms. Although Hermione was almost sixteen years old, Merope still wanted to comfort her as a daughter. “I’m very sorry about what you are going through with Tom,” she said. “I wish I could help you as you just helped me.”

Hermione twitched in Merope’s arms.

“I want you to tell me something,” Merope said, “and I don’t want you to think about this in terms of what you perceive as your duty. I certainly don’t want you to concern yourself with what you believe Tom would want you to do, and I don’t want you to fear offending me, either. I want you to answer this only for yourself and what _you_ would like. Tom has informed me that he told you about a bargain I made with him the day the two of you met.”

“He did.”

“Next summer… do you want to go through with the wedding? Or would you rather break it off at that point, after you have finished your education?” Merope thought quickly. “You may change your mind, of course. I just want to know what you think right now.” There was another reason, but she would wait until Hermione answered—and _what_ she answered—before talking about it.

Hermione considered. She was not sure of her future if she did end the engagement. Would her parents scramble something for her quickly, a marriage to a stranger? They might, and what could she do about it? She certainly would not have any protection as a witch under Malfoy’s laws, and who knew what additional laws he might enact over the next year? If she defied her parents and chose to live as an independent, single witch, she likely would not be allowed to carry a wand _at all._ Even now, if she did marry Tom, she would not be allowed to have one in public after she had left Hogwarts. That was one of Malfoy’s new rules. Without that marriage, her future would be bleak indeed… but it was not just that practical consideration that troubled her.

If she ended her engagement to Tom, there would be virtually no chance that they would reconcile in the future. She was unhappy, certainly—but it was not because she was with Tom. It was because she _wasn’t_ “with” him to the extent that she would prefer, the extent that they had once been close. She wanted that back, and it was at least possible that she could have it in a future that included him. She had not wanted to let him touch her until he had apologized for his bad conduct… but it was different for a married couple. A married couple, especially a noble couple, could be intimate strictly in order to have a child, whereas Hermione had done so out of desire and closeness to him—and had even taken the potion to _prevent_ conception. She could allow it again once she was _officially_ married, to start a new family… and who knew? Perhaps once Tom was out of Hogwarts, and had to devote his time to more serious matters than fantasizing about crowns and looking for ancient chambers, he would appreciate her again. And if he did not… then at least she would have children someday, and she would be in the same household as Merope, who was now more of a mother to her than her own mother.

She looked up at Merope. “I want to do it,” she said firmly. “I want to have the wedding.”

Merope studied her for a moment before nodding. A grim smile formed on her face as she released Hermione. “I’ll be honest with you now that you have said that, Hermione. That was what I hoped you would say. And, since you have, here is my promise to _you._ As long as you feel this way, and if nothing else changes, I won’t cut you off. It would be terribly unfair to you and I won’t do it. This takes precedence over what I told Tom three years ago, because as I explained to him the night before last, there is no good reason to terminate the contract. If this remains your wish, then I will make sure it happens. This, I swear to you.”

She cupped Hermione’s cheek and smiled sadly at her before departing. Hermione stood silently, watching her leave, pleased that she would reconcile with Severus—and grimly relieved about her own future.

* * *

Severus was surprised when Merope showed up at the door to his manor house, but he could hardly deny his liege admittance. He showed her to the sitting room and flicked his wand to summon some of his wine bottles. She did not look angry, he observed as he cast the charm to uncork a bottle and pour the wine into goblets for them. That was promising.

Merope accepted her goblet and sipped the wine, her features showing approval as she tasted it. “Severus,” she began, setting it down on a table. “I came here to… well, to apologize for my reaction to the information that Pettigrew gave.”

Severus faced her. “You don’t owe me an apology,” he said stoically. “You were right that I should have told you the truth about my part in Godric’s Hollow. I don’t know when would have been a good time to tell you about the Potters, because it didn’t seem that it would serve any purpose… the lad is considered James’s son, after all, and for all anyone knows, he really is. But I shouldn’t have deceived you about my own participation in the uprising.”

Merope nodded. “I admit much of my anger was about the secrecy… and you were also right that I have kept too many secrets from my own son. We’re all Slytherins, clearly,” she said with a dark laugh, “and we’re paying the price for keeping our secrets. But… we can make something good and even beautiful out of this present situation, and that’s what I want to happen.”

Severus managed a smile. Merope was pleased, and she considered how to continue. She did not want to betray Hermione’s confidence, and she did not think that she needed to. Severus had feelings for her—very strong ones. She just needed to reassure him that she returned those feelings herself.

“I want to make that happen as well,” he said quietly. “What do you mean, though, when you say that ‘much’ of your anger was about my secrecy? Was there something else?”

She sighed. This was going to be difficult, and nothing in Hermione’s memory had addressed it. “I suppose that ‘anger’ might not be the most apt word to use for it. The bit that concerns me is… this Lily was engaged to be married. Did you know that? Pettigrew described it as a ‘seduction’—is that true? And, I suppose, if it is true… then how can you reassure me? I realize it was sixteen years ago. Was it just youth?”

Severus glared at his own lap, then breathed deeply to cool the surge of anger that had arisen in him. He raised his gaze to her face. “Pettigrew misrepresented it,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t think you would appreciate any details of how it happened… but since you asked, I will tell you. Lily said that she and Potter had had a terrible fight and that the betrothal was off.” He noticed that Merope’s eyes widened in surprise at this information, but it encouraged him. “I won’t repeat what she said about him, but suffice it to say that it was completely in keeping with my own wretched experiences with the lout at Hogwarts. I felt sorry for any witch who had been ill-used by James Potter, and… yes… I was young and idealistic. I believed that the rebellion might actually succeed and that Lily and I could have a chance in the future. When Lucius Malfoy had it so brutally put down, I made sure that Lily would be safe and then fled back to Parselhall. We both agreed that the relationship could not continue, because otherwise I would have to account for how I met her, since she didn’t go to Hogwarts. It would be far too dangerous. A month later, Pettigrew mentioned that Potter had married her.” He glanced down again, unable to look Merope in the eye for this next confession. “I… have reason to think that she had already consummated her engagement with Potter when I met her, so it’s quite likely that they were intimate again before their wedding. I genuinely don’t know who is the blood father of Harry Potter.”

Merope tried not to think about just how Severus must have figured out that Lily had not been a virgin. She considered the rest of what she had just learned. “Do you think that Lily returned to James Potter because she was with child?”

“If she did, it couldn’t have been because of me. Not that soon. The wedding itself occurred a month after the rebellion, so they had been making plans during that month. If she decided to marry him because she was pregnant, then it happened before I met her. But I think they really did reconcile after the rebellion. She never tried to correspond with me afterward.”

Merope thought about this. “She told you that the engagement was off,” she murmured. “I wonder why Pettigrew implied otherwise? I suppose he might not have known.”

“That is just exactly what I hoped you would mention,” he said, his tone suddenly much more aggressive. “My lady Merope, I will be honest with you: I do not trust Pettigrew and I don’t think he should have free rein in the castle.”

Merope drew back. “Severus, I think you are allowing your dislike of Potter and Sirius Black to influence you against Pettigrew.”

“It doesn’t help,” he admitted, “but I have other questions about him.”

She folded her hands on her lap and gazed at him. “And they are?”

“Well, for one, where has he _been_ for five years? Or—granting him the first two—where has he been for the three that you have ruled here? He knew that you were here. He admitted it under Veritaserum. He claimed he was wary of you because you were a Gaunt, but that doesn’t explain what he _was_ doing. I wish I’d asked him when he had that potion in him.”

“Well, you did not, and now he has taken the oath to me. I can’t risk alienating him by letting you question him under serum whenever you like, Severus. You must understand that. Do you have actual cause to suspect him of anything?”

Severus explained his theory that Pettigrew was an indiscriminate information-gatherer and opportunist. Merope regarded him patiently as he talked. When he was finished, she thought about what he had said.

“There may be something in that,” she said thoughtfully. “A wizard who feels betrayed by his lord, and rightly so, and who feels that he has nowhere to go. I can see it, I suppose. However, he did return to this fief. He certainly attempted to buy my loyalty with his information, even if he exaggerated and misled about some details. I am resolved to give him a chance, Severus—though I will limit him to only certain areas of the castle. I’ve set the Muggle tradesmen to work on his old manor today. It should be ready soon, and he can live there.”

Severus was not satisfied, but he realized that the discussion of Pettigrew was at an end for now. Better not to press his luck—or digress from the more important subject at hand. They would have more opportunities to talk about this later.

“Now,” Merope said, much more warmth in her words, “shall we talk about our own ‘business’ once more?”

“I would be delighted,” he replied, his voice deeper than usual, to his own surprise.

“Well,” she said, “first, I am sorry for the way I handled it the night before last. It was cold and abrupt and I took you for granted. I shouldn’t have. I… am not sure I could have offered a heartfelt confession of love at that point—I mean, it’s not because I don’t—that is to say—” She broke off, feeling her face flush. That was certainly an unfamiliar sensation. “It had been a long and difficult day. I had to see young Wilkes off, Pettigrew had arrived, Regulus Black had arrived, I had received frightening news of my former husband’s death, and my son and I had just had a terrible fight over that. That’s all that it was. It wasn’t because I—” She broke off again, feeling the heat rise once more. _What is this?_ she thought in embarrassment and exasperation. _I haven’t had this happen since I eloped with Sir Thomas. I am too old for this—_

Severus was watching her in surprise—and growing amusement—at this fragmented explanation and the accompanying change in the color of her face. “So you _do_ deem yourself capable of a ‘heartfelt confession of love’ at a better moment, my lady?”

She stared at him indignantly, but a smile played at the corners of her lips.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, grinning. _“Merope,_ of course.”

At last, a laugh escaped her lips. It was not very musical; her voice had never been the most melodic, but to Severus, it was the sweetest sound in the world. He decided to be bold. Rising from his chair, he crossed the short distance between them, took her hands in his, and gently pulled her from her seat. Her smile was lopsided and her cheeks were as pink as he had ever seen them. A girlish laugh slipped from her throat as he embraced her and quickly planted a kiss on the side of her cheek.

* * *

Tom scowled in frustration as he cast the spell to clean a cauldron. Yet another solvent had failed with the green potion. Tom had no more idea of what it was now than he had when he first saw it, even though he had tested twenty diagnostic potions or general-purpose antidotes on it, a drop or two of the green potion at a time. A bloodied rag lay on the table, because some of the diagnostic potions were rather obscure and required a measure of human blood. It had been useless.

He gazed at the flask, which now contained only a few drops of it. He supposed he could return to the cave to scoop up more, but that seemed like a failure of sorts. The cave might even seal against him if he returned for any purpose other than to claim the hidden artifact. _I am going to return to Hogwarts soon enough,_ he thought, storing the flask on a shelf in his room. _I can ask Slughorn about it. He may have some insight._ The thought crossed Tom’s mind that Snape might also know what the green potion was, or at least, how to determine what it was, but he was not going to tell this to Snape.

Thinking about Snape irritated him now. Apparently the new vassal, Pettigrew, had told Mother some compromising information of some sort about Snape while he was away, but they had quickly patched up their differences. It was incredibly frustrating that Tom would have to deal with this wizard, who clearly did not like him very much, as his _stepfather_ in a couple of months. _Nothing is going right for me,_ Tom thought. _Wilkes is played for a fool by his own father… and I really hate the idea of being manipulated myself by Malfoy and Lestrange. My father deserved what he got, but I still hate it. Someday they will pay for everything they have done. But right now, I have been used for their ends, Mother has lost an alliance… and nothing else is going right either. I couldn’t get to the artifact that must be in that basin, and I still don’t know what to do. I am no closer to finding Slytherin’s chamber, because Mother won’t remove her hexes from the books about later family history. Hermione continues to be stubborn, if she even cares anything about me at all. I don’t know what Potter’s associates are involved in. And Mother is going to marry bloody Snape._

Tom’s serpent familiar seemed to sense his irritation and slithered around his wrist. He glanced down at the creature and managed a faint smile. A reminder of his heritage always helped, at least a little bit.

* * *

The new year at Hogwarts began soon, much to Tom’s relief. His mother and Snape discussed wedding plans daily, and he could hardly stand it anymore. He didn’t like the idea of Snape with his mother— _sleeping_ with his mother—but there was more to it than that. The two of them sat at the family dinner table, or the family parlor, or anywhere in the castle, really, making eyes at each other like…. _Well, like Hermione and I used to,_ Tom thought irritably. However, the subtle displays of affection that he witnessed did not inspire him to change his own behavior. If anything, they had the opposite effect. The last thing that Tom wanted to do was to allow the sight of Severus Snape eyeballing his mother to influence what _he_ did. He just wanted to get back to Hogwarts to take the remnant of his green potion to Slughorn, to meet with his friends again, and to seek out the Chamber of Slytherin.

Wilkes had written to him to tell him about his father’s shocking death. Tom had written back, his words cold as ice, explaining the circumstances of that death. Wilkes’s reply had been properly horrified and embarrassed—as well it should, Tom thought. He decided not to punish Wilkes for the deception; Wilkes had not known what he was doing, after all. His father had been the traitor and oathbreaker, and he had paid the ultimate price for it. Knowing that one’s father had died for treachery was a punishment worse than anything Tom could mete out. Wilkes was technically the title-holder now, but since he was not of wizarding age, his mother would act for him. She had already assured Merope of her allegiance, and she did not seem to have been involved in her late husband’s dealings with Lestrange.

 _Yes,_ Tom thought confidently as he Apparated with Hermione into the street of Hogsmeade, _I have plans for this year._

Next to him, Hermione was resolving to herself that she too would accomplish some important things. She would learn to Apparate, and she would do it quickly. She would get _better_ marks than Tom in as many fields of magic as she could. And she would consult with Luna, Harry, and her other friends as often as possible to find out what was going on with their families.

* * *

The very first evening after the pupils of Hogwarts had classes with the masters, something happened to further Hermione’s last resolution. She was coming down from the Astronomy tower, her star chart in hand. She had been the final student to leave the class, but that was only because she wanted to be absolutely certain that she got everything correct. When she reached the base of the tower, she was startled out of her own thoughts by the sound of a witch and a wizard having a heated argument. To her even greater surprise, she recognized the voices as those of High Master Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall.

“I don’t care, Albus—I don’t like it!”

Hermione hid herself away in the shadows behind the arched entrance to the tower.

“Now, Minerva,” Dumbledore said in a soothing voice, “you surely understand that they must _say_ certain things to get what they desire—what we must have, if this plan is to succeed. It does not mean that they intend to follow through.”

“You presume much, Albus.” McGonagall’s voice was laced with anger. “You have blinded yourself to certain inconvenient truths about our so-called allies. I think they _do_ believe what they are saying.”

“That is a very serious accusation, Minerva.” His tone was suddenly no longer soothing.

“But a valid one. Have you failed to see how every one of the boys currently here behaves? I assure you, I haven’t. Of _all_ the people to negotiate on our behalf—”

“I cannot imagine what your objection is. He is a gentle, mild wizard.”

 _“She_ isn’t, and in a matter like this one, he would do exactly as she asked him to! That’s all he has ever done, and _she_ is genuinely the worst witch possible for this role!”

“This discussion isn’t appropriate for the halls of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said sharply. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it is at an end. I trust the assignments I have made.” He turned and walked briskly in the direction of his own office. Hermione held her breath as McGonagall walked in the other direction, which took her right past the Astronomy tower entrance—but the older witch did not detect Hermione’s presence.

She waited several minutes to be certain that the hallways were clear before hurrying to the Slytherin common room, thinking hard and fast about what she had just heard.

* * *

“I really don’t know what that could mean,” Harry murmured under his breath that evening after Hermione told him what she had overheard. Tom was not present in the common room at all, so they did not have to worry about his eavesdropping. “It certainly _sounds_ as if Professor McGonagall is very unhappy with the parents of someone here….”

“Multiple ‘someones,’” Hermione added, “and wizards all.” An idea occurred to her. “Do you think she means the Weasleys? She would be Head of House for all of them, and it does seem that the twins and that Ronald boy are ill-behaved. Ronald is certainly rude, and slothful, and the twins seem to be in trouble all the time for pranks and attacks. But she would have been referring to their parents. Do you know anything about their parents, Harry? Would they fit the descriptions she and Master Dumbledore gave—the father ‘gentle and mild,’ and the mother apparently the opposite?”

Harry shook his head. “I really don’t know, Hermione, and obviously we cannot ask Ginevra about it.”

Hermione chuckled darkly. “I suppose not… unless she expresses irritation with her mother of her own accord.”

“My father gets owls from the Weasleys a lot,” Harry mused, “but I’ve never met the parents personally.”

That seemed strange to Hermione. “Your father gets owls from them—the parents, you mean? Or some of the older brothers?”

“The letters I have seen are from the parents and the son Percival— _Sir_ Percival now.”

Hermione frowned. “Do they not write to your mother?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen one for her. Why?”

Hermione was not about to tell Harry about the dramatics that she had experienced that summer. What good would it do? He looked nothing like Severus Snape except for his hair color, and there was no spell to prove paternity, so best not to sow doubts that could never be permanently erased or confirmed. “Luna sent me a note over the summer about her visit with you, and she mentioned that your mother corresponded with the Weasleys, Longbottoms, and Dumbledore—but she implied it was much less than your father.”

“Oh, well, my mother _does_ correspond with Dumbledore and with Neville’s mother. But I don’t think Mistress Weasley and my mother like each other, to be honest.” He sighed. “My father is buried in his letters these days. It’s harder than ever to learn anything from him about what is going on or what he may be involved in. I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help.”

“It isn’t your fault!” she exclaimed. “I know you are doing your best, and it is obviously much more important to you than to me. It’s _your_ family, after all.”

He managed a weak smile. “I think I may have better luck in the long term with Sirius. Sirius and my father have been friends since long before I was born, of course… but….” He trailed off.

“They are having difficulties?”

He nodded. “It has to do with a courtship that Sirius began.”

“Luna mentioned that too!” Hermione said, remembering.

“The witch is a widow with a young daughter. She knew them from Hogwarts, my father and Sirius. I think she and Sirius are going to get married soon, actually. My father has never approved of it.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No. I wish I did.”

* * *

While Hermione and Harry were exchanging information and theories in the Slytherin common room that evening, Tom was in the Potions laboratory with Professor Slughorn. It was a blow to his pride, but he had to turn over the flask of green potion to the potions master for analysis. Slughorn was absolutely delighted at what he was rapidly discovering—and Tom was increasingly sour, though his professor did not notice.

“But this is wonderful, Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed, holding up a solid gold spoon that was overflowing with a foaming, sizzling fluid. “This potion is _alchemical!”_

Tom glared venomously at the spoon. “Alchemical?” he said, barely holding in his spite. “How so… Professor? What does it do?”

Slughorn gazed across the table, where a collection of spoons in gold and silver rested, all of them filled with compounds of various beautiful colors. “This is… well,” he said, pausing to gather his thoughts and tamp down his excitement. “My diagnostics indicate that this potion will induce a reflection of one’s darkest moments in life.”

 _How horrible,_ Tom thought. _Why is the man so excited about that?_ “And with all due respect… Professor… what is the alchemical part? That doesn’t sound very appealing to me.”

“Oh, Tom,” Slughorn said indulgently, shaking his head at the folly of youth. “The purpose of alchemy—the true purpose—is not merely to transmute base metals, or even to unlock the secret of earthly immortality.”

“Wizards have already done that anyway,” Tom said at once, failing utterly to keep the bitterness out of his words.

Slughorn turned to him with raised eyebrows. “Tom! Let’s… stay on topic.”

Tom noted his professor’s distaste for the subject at which he had hinted. Somehow that only made his annoyance at what he was learning increase.

“The ultimate purpose of alchemy is to purify the self—to cleanse the soul. No one has achieved that level of personal enlightenment, which is thought to be necessary to even have a chance at creating the Philosopher’s Stone. However, there have been those who have taken some steps along that path, and whoever created this potion must have been one of them! The point of reflecting on one’s darkest moments—one’s worst deeds—is to face the wrong one has done and to feel remorse for it. That is what consuming this potion will do in a large enough amount. The few drops you provided me tonight won’t induce that sort of reckoning, but I would bet they would have brought forward some dark memories. You say that this potion came from a family heirloom?”

“Not an heirloom, precisely,” Tom hedged. “It’s a magical artifact that belongs to my mother’s family, though.”

“Do you think you could bring it here—after Christmas, perhaps?”

Tom shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can move it from its place.”

“Well, that’s a pity. It would be very interesting to examine.” He considered further. “In a case like this, there would probably be an additional potion to be taken afterward. This is strong, and drinking the necessary amount would probably render a person very weak. I would guess that there is a potion, or a spell at least, that restores some physical vigor.”

Unless there was something special about the water in the cave, Tom did not know what that could be. He forced the scowl off his face and managed a smile for his professor. “Well,” he said, “this is very interesting indeed! Thank you for doing this analysis, Professor.”

“Thank _you_ for bringing it! It has been a pleasure and a treat to see something like this.”

 _Not for me,_ Tom thought as he gathered up his supplies and prepared to leave the laboratory. In his opinion, the entire exercise was a disappointment. He was right about that potion from the very first, he thought: It _was_ poison. Slughorn might call it alchemical, but in Tom’s view, anything that produced the effect Slughorn described was a poison and certainly not something he intended to drink.

As he entered the hall and began the short walk to the Slytherin common room, he reflected that the interaction had not been entirely pointless. At least he did know what the potion did now. That was something, and it was a starting place for him to devise a way to defeat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Snape/Merope wedding should occur in the next chapter (this reassurance is mainly meant for you, bainsidhe).
> 
> I'm doing something a little different with the green potion. I don't see what is so bad about reliving one's darkest moments, especially in the case of someone who _needs_ to reflect on how he (or she) hurt others and to feel guilty and remorseful for it. The problem with the cave in canon was the presence of Inferi in the water (the only water one can drink after quaffing that potion, which heavily implies that they are magically linked), which Voldemort placed there himself at some point. Also, Voldemort didn't make the potion do what it does. It already had that property, or else why would he have ordered Kreacher to drink it for him _before_ he placed the locket inside? The basin also refills itself over time, implying a magical purpose for it that is entirely independent of what canon Voldemort used it for.
> 
> I think it's now very clear what purpose the potion itself will serve in this story. Whether there is an object in the basin, and what it might be if there is, we shall see!


	35. Mischief Managed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much! The key event in this chapter should hopefully be a nice treat in an otherwise dark stretch of the story. There is a section of this chapter that is NSFW.
> 
>  **Warnings** : This chapter contains some highly misogynistic commentary from characters that some readers may like and find sympathetic in canon. For me, the people who say this stuff in this chapter are among my least favorite, but I realize not everyone shares my likes and dislikes among all the canon characters.

The wedding of Merope Gaunt Riddle and Severus Snape was set for the end of October, the weekend before Hallowe’en. Tom and Hermione received permission to go to Parselhall for the event—though Tom would have preferred a denial. It would have been an excuse not to go to a wedding that he very much did not want to witness and wished he could block out of his thoughts altogether. However, for a childless bachelor, Albus Dumbledore was surprisingly sentimental about family.

When Tom was forced to think about the impending marriage, his mind quickly shifted to peripheral matters. One issue that puzzled him was the fact that Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange had not done anything in retaliation for a piece of news that must have been equally unwelcome to them as it was to Tom—albeit for very different reasons.

 _What are they up to?_ Tom wondered. _They must be up to something. They would not ignore something like this._ He did not know, and it worried him.

Observing Draco Malfoy’s behavior did not shed any light on the question. Draco seemed warier than usual, Tom noted, keeping to himself more than before and even being chilly with his “pack” of Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and William Rosier. Tom recalled that Regulus Black had been uncertain of the loyalties of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Draco’s parents. Perhaps the suspicion and distrust were reciprocal and it included their son as well. However, Draco’s guarded behavior this autumn did not help Tom determine what might be brewing in Malfoy Manor at the behest of his great-grandfather and uncle Lestrange.

 _On the other hand,_ Tom thought with a spark of disgruntlement, _perhaps Draco is being guarded and wary for much more mundane reasons. There was that night that I was coming back from the library and I overheard him speaking with Astoria Greengrass in hushed voices. They are carrying on; I’m certain of it, and that will make trouble for everyone. I would not care if it were any other witch—well, no, that’s not true,_ he corrected his own thoughts as he remembered Hermione. _Any witch but one. Well, two, because it would create problems if it were Daphne just as it will with her sister. The Greengrass family has an alliance with the Flint family, who are our allies. Otherwise I would not care, and would even support anything that promotes division among the Norman families, but there will be repercussions from this if it continues, and this could easily be what Draco is so nervous about._ Tom scowled to himself at this thought. He didn’t like any of this, and the fact that he did not know what Malfoy and Lestrange were planning as retaliation for the unwelcome news from Parselhall alarmed him most of all.

* * *

Tom had the answer to his unspoken question the very next day. A vassal of Lestrange or Malfoy whom he had never seen before—a large blond wizard whose name, he learned, was Rowle—was busy attaching a decree to the walls of Hogwarts. A crowd of pupils gathered around it, and Tom noted with some interest that every single face was filled with outrage. Of course, he did _not_ notice anyone there who was a son or daughter of Armand Malfoy’s allies….

 

_AN ACT TO ENCOURAGE FAMILIAL AND SOCIETAL ORDER_

_By order of His High Lordship Armand Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire, Lord of Witches and Wizards, it is hereby proclaimed that the use of the Imperius Curse is permitted in certain situations and shall no longer be considered a crime when performed thus:_

  1. _A wizard husband may use the spell on his witch wife to force obedience in any lawful matter including marital duties._
  2. _A wizard father may use the spell on all his children of any age who reside with him or whom he supports financially, in whole or in part, to force any lawful behavior. This provision shall be construed to include adult children who reside in properties owned by the head of the family._
  3. _A half-blood or pureblood witch or wizard may use the spell on any known Mudblood to force any lawful behavior._
  4. _A ruling noble with at least one drop of Norman blood, which is to say, at least one proven magical ancestor who entered the Isle of Britain in Anno Domini 1066 with the Norman company, or any Norman company that followed to support and enforce their rightful rule, may use the spell on any wizarding noble without such ancestry to force any lawful behavior._



_This law does not permit the casters of the Imperius Curse to force subjects to perform deeds that are unlawful._

 

Tom felt his blood rising to his head in anger. It was already allowed for magical persons to use the spell in question on Muggles, or their own underage children, or for nobles to use it on untitled subjects—though not titled magical vassals. Most witches and wizards _didn’t_ use it on their children except when a child was doing something dangerous, nor did most nobles use it on witches or wizards even if they were commoners, but they _could._ The use of it in any other context had been a minor crime, punishable by magical confinement for a few weeks. It was perfectly obvious to Tom why Malfoy and Lestrange had carved out each and every one of these new exceptions.

 _Snape would not do that to Mother,_ he reassured himself. _But would he do it to me? He is not my father… but if he did, would Malfoy and Lestrange make that distinction? Not for my sake, I’m sure. And the last…._ He thought for a moment about his enemies at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy, Adelaide Lestrange, and their associates were noble, but they were not rulers. This did not permit them to do it to him—but if they did, would their families do anything about it? _Absolutely not,_ Tom answered his own question.

He caught sight of a very familiar bushy head of brown hair—and in the next moment, Hermione turned around and noticed him as well. Her eyes were wide and wary, and as soon as she noticed that he was there, she tried to get away quickly.

 _She fears that I will do it to her,_ he thought, weaving his way through the gathering crowd to reach her. _She is afraid that I would do that to her. How could she even think that?_ He was affronted and irked that she would have so little faith in him… but another part of him was troubled that she thought she had reason to fear it. He attempted to ignore this little voice as he caught Hermione.

She took a deep breath as she turned to face him, her face hard and set, determined courage shining in her eyes. For a brief moment, he wanted to reassure her.

 _No,_ he thought at once. _I have done nothing. I have not even threatened it. I won’t be the one to say it. If she is that afraid of me, she can say it first._ Meeting his gaze with hers, he said, “Hermione, it’s in your best interest to be able to recognize the signs of being cursed with the spell and learn how to fight it off. I mean to do the same… though”—he struggled with the words, but it was true—“you are obviously in greater danger.”

Some of the visible anxiety drained from her face as she considered his words. Slowly she nodded. “They may have gone too far this time.”

“Let’s hope so.”

A guffaw sounded from near the wall where the parchment was attached. Tom and Hermione’s heads turned quickly to see the source. To Tom’s utter shock, the person who had laughed was not Draco Malfoy, but the youngest Weasley boy.

“Look at number one!” he exclaimed to his older twin brothers, who were beside him, regarding him—well, not as a wizard would regard an animal familiar, but as a Muggle might regard an amusing pet. “I wish Da would do that to Mum! She’s being a right bitch lately.”

Hermione’s hand clenched around her wand reflexively. Tom noted with pleasure that her eyebrows narrowed in anger.

“She is,” one of the twins agreed, “but the other three aren’t good, Ron.”

The youngest wizard—Ronald—nodded, his facial features turning sour, albeit somewhat reluctantly so. “No, they’re not. Malfoy and Lestrange always do too much, more than there would be real support for.”

“You think there will be support for the first one?”

Ron Weasley scowled. “Yes. Witches are getting above themselves. Just the other day, Lavender told me that she expects me to wear this ridiculous necklace she got for me…. Emotional and silly, they are. No wizard can understand them. I think the newcomers have the right of it, frankly.”

A cloud of angry orange sparks and black mist, appearing almost like they had come from a fire that had been prodded, issued from Tom’s wand, nearly singeing his robes. Startled at the accidental magic, he decided that it was time to leave. The Weasley idiot had already expressed his opinion—and how typical of a Muggle-loving Weasley to side with the Muggle-inspired Norman wizards’ view of witches, rather than the far more respectful view espoused by his ancestors’ clans—and it was a matter of time before people like Draco Malfoy showed up and said things purposely to pick a fight.

“If you are still consorting with Potter’s secret group, you should advise him to expel that witch-hating lout from the order,” Tom said brusquely to Hermione. He did not wait for her to reply, turning away from her before she said anything in response.

With that, they parted and went their separate ways—Hermione to the library, Tom to the common room to find his Lords of Beltane. They would be just as outraged about this as he was, especially the first, second, and fourth provisions.

* * *

As October approached, Tom increasingly avoided thinking of the wedding. There was magic to study, both for his mastery classes—every one of which Hermione shared, and he resented the fact that he was not studying with _her_ now that this was the case—and his outside projects of defeating the green potion and the Imperius Curse.

The latter project went much better much more quickly, though it was another matter for which Tom wished he could practice with Hermione. He did not want any of his Lords of Beltane to use that spell on him, even for practice reasons; it would undermine his authority. He went to Slughorn for private lessons, citing Malfoy and Lestrange’s proclamation as the reason. The professor was visibly nervous about the exercise.

“The proclamation merely says that the curse is allowed in those situations,” Tom said mildly to Slughorn on the afternoon of the first lesson. “It does not prohibit anyone from learning how to defeat it.”

Slughorn considered that, nodded, and took a deep breath as he began the session.

After a few lessons, Tom was able to recognize and cast off the Imperius Curse quite readily. He had a natural knack for it. As he walked out of Slughorn’s office for the final lesson, he wondered about Hermione. She was still in greater danger than he was. Since Hermione still refused to have much to do with him, he grudgingly hoped that Potter’s private club would practice this.

The green potion was another matter entirely. Tom could not find any approach for countering a potion as Slughorn had described. The potions books, the ancient codices, all the potionmaking lore in the Hogwarts library did not even consider alchemical potions as needing antidotes. Tom grew increasingly frustrated with his fruitless studies on this subject… or perhaps it was the steady approach of his mother’s wedding date that frustrated him.

* * *

The Friday evening before the wedding arrived. Professor Slughorn ushered Tom and Hermione into the courtyard of the school.

“I offer my felicitations to your lady mother,” he said to Tom, beaming. “And to Lord Severus, of course.”

Tom managed a smile for his professor, although he wanted to punch the man in the face—or curse him. He turned to Hermione to Disapparate with her, but she gave him a smug smile.

“Thank you, Tom, but I have learned how to do it myself,” she said haughtily.

He gaped at her. “Well,” he finally managed, “that’s good. I hope you can manage a long trip like this one,” he could not resist adding.

Without another word, Hermione twisted in the air, vanishing with a pop before his eyes. Tom felt a momentary pang, as her disappearance seemed somehow symbolic to him, but he shook his head quickly as if to clear that thought from his mind. Then he Apparated himself.

The castle was decked in autumnal décor, Tom observed once he and Hermione were admitted to the great hall. Branches with red, orange, and gold leaves decorated the shelves and ledges, wreaths of autumn foliage hung from the walls, and colorful gourds rested on tables. The high seat was now accompanied by an additional, slightly lower seat, since Severus would be the consort—whatever Armand Malfoy might wish. He had made his law with the intent that Caractacus Burke would marry Merope, anyway. As Tom greeted his mother, he held onto this idea, finding a small measure of comfort in the fact that at least _that_ would not happen.

 _He did cheat her, though,_ he recalled. _He basically robbed her of a family heirloom. Someday I’ll have to make that right._

Merope observed the frostiness between Tom and Hermione, her heart sinking at the sight of it. She had known that they were at odds, but she still hoped that they would repair their relationship. _They still have time,_ she thought. _And there will be time after, as well. I hope for Hermione’s sake that it does not take that long, because she deserves to enjoy her wedding without reservation, but if it does, then surely they will make amends once they are truly bound to each other for life._ Hermione’s face was set and determined, Merope observed. It was, she supposed, an improvement over the sadness that had been manifest for so many months.

But as much as she cared about Hermione and Tom, Merope could not focus too long on them. She was excited about her own wedding the following day. After the initial misgivings, created by Pettigrew’s slanted information, she had come to realize that she had grown to care about Severus a great deal over the past three years.

She had known him as a boy, of course, but he had been a few years older, and at that age, it made a difference. She had fled Hangleton relatively soon after completing her education at Hogwarts and had lived with Tom in London after Sir Thomas had betrayed and abandoned them, not seeing Severus for fourteen years. She had not realized it until very recently, but she still bore the scars of the terror of her own family—scars that were doubtless not as deep as they would have been if Morfin had succeeded in his evil plans, but were still present to a lesser degree—as well as Sir Thomas’s abandonment. These wounds had encased her heart in a shell of sorts. It was part of the reason why her first act as a noblewoman had been to set up a match for Tom. She had wanted to help Hermione as well, but that was not all. Tom had been wrong in thinking she regretted not marrying “the wizard her father had wanted her to marry,” as he had accused that wretched night that he had killed his father, but he was _not_ wrong that her negative experience with self-chosen romance had prejudiced her in favor of _normal_ arranged betrothals made when the couple were young. Her jaded perspective on marriage had influenced her plans for herself to an even greater degree: She _had_ wanted Tom and Hermione to find love with each other. For herself, she had not entertained the idea, even after proposing marriage to Severus as a blatantly political move, until the day that they had talked about Pettigrew’s information.

Somehow, the shell around her heart had cracked, and she was glad of it. If she had not acknowledged to herself at last that she did have feelings for him, and welcomed his for her, then she realized she would be considering tomorrow strictly as a way to thwart Armand Malfoy. Severus would know it, too, perceptive as he was, and he would resent it even if he put on a mask of Occlumency for her and their guests. If that had happened, she realized with a chill that she likely never would have known what real romantic love was, and it would have been her own doing. But instead, she was looking forward to it.

She and Severus had conducted themselves very well. The impatience of youth was one thing, but they were in their mid-thirties and they could wait till their wedding night. The anticipation made it even more appealing to think about. Despite her youthful fancy for Sir Thomas, Merope had still been very nervous about her first wedding night. That was not so now.

Merope was brought out of her reverie by the realization that Tom was still in the great hall, though Hermione had gone elsewhere—her room or the library, most likely. That thought reminded her that she had something she meant to tell Tom. She intended and hoped that it would placate him; she knew that he was not happy about her wedding.

“Tom,” she said, descending from the high seat, “come with me to the library. There is something I have to tell you there.”

Intrigued, Tom followed her to the library. She walked across the immense room to a section of bookshelves that he knew very well indeed by this point. His pulse quickened.

“These are all open to you now,” Merope said, gesturing at the bookcases that were filled with family histories. “I have removed my hexes from everything.”

Tom was already eyeing the books greedily. She gazed at him and said in a sharper tone, “I am placing trust in you, Tom. I’m trusting that whatever information you seek and find here, you will not act on it in a destructive way, like last summer. You _know_ of what I speak.”

Tom did. She was alluding to the Chamber of Slytherin. He tore his gaze away from _Serpent-Tongue: The Life and Mysteries of Salazar Slytherin_ and met her eyes with his. “Your trust won’t be misplaced,” he said briskly. He hesitated; it was difficult for him to say what had come to his mind, but she expected it, and he knew he should. “Thank you, Mother.”

She considered for a moment before nodding, a faint smile on her face. Leaving him in the library, she turned away to go to her own bedchamber. Tomorrow would be a big day.

* * *

The guests began to arrive early. There were not many in attendance. The roster consisted of the five wizarding couples with whom Merope had allied—the Flints, the Fawleys, the Notts, the Averys, and the recently widowed Lady Wilkes—as well as the parents of Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, and Hermione’s own parents. She was happy to see them, but she also resolved to put on a good front for them and not let them see how displeased she was with Tom. Nothing good could come of it, given that she already knew how they viewed the matter.

Hermione was surprised when a man in priestly apparel showed up and Lady Greengrass—somewhat visibly befuddled at the fact that she was talking to a Muggle-born on an equal footing—introduced him as Father Alphard Black. She had not known there were any wizard priests. The stout Hufflepuff monk who cheerfully managed the Hogwarts chapel was the only wizard she knew who had any connection with that institution.

“Father Black performs weddings, christenings, and funerals for almost all witches and wizards,” the woman explained to Hermione.

He smiled. “It is so. I gave up any hope of inheriting part of the Black fortune when I took my ecclesial vows, but it is important for our people to have representation in the church.”

Hermione could not disagree with that.

The last of the preparations were in order, and Hermione took her seat next to Tom in the front row. Autumn decorations adorned the benches and the walls, adding an air of poignancy to the event, but it seemed fitting. Merope and Severus were not a young couple, after all. Father Black began to speak, and in short order, Severus marched down the middle, his robes—not entirely black, fortunately—billowing behind him magnificently. He took his place at the front.

The grand doors opened again, and Merope walked down the aisle, wearing a very pretty olive-green gown that Hermione had never seen before. Probably she had had it made for this day. She also looked younger than Hermione had ever seen, her face rose-hued and smiling. Hermione wanted to smile too, but to her chagrin, a lump formed in her throat at once. She glanced at Tom, who was staring ahead with a deliberately impassive and stoic expression on his handsome face. Swallowing hard and attempting to put her own unhappiness out of her mind, Hermione faced forward again to observe the bride and groom as they said their vows. Severus was _smiling._ It was a striking sight, one that looked unusual on him—but not unbecoming.

At the head of the room, Merope and Severus gazed at each other happily as he placed a gold band on her ring finger. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly, the smile on his face transforming into a hint of a smirk at the thought of what was to come that night. Merope flushed faintly redder. No one in the seats noticed these details. They were only for the couple’s own eyes.

* * *

After the wedding ceremony ended, the guests and the newlyweds removed to the grand banquet hall. Hermione and the Riddles had rarely eaten there, using it mainly for holiday feasts and other festive occasions for which they invited the important Muggles of the village who provided goods and services to the family. Obviously today qualified as an important and festive occasion, though the banquet hall was still comparatively empty with only the wedding party and guests present.

They took their seats at the head table and the two tables closest to it on each side. In a bit, the elves brought out the first course of their meal, a soup course. Merope could smell the main course of roasted duck and boar finishing in the great kitchen, mingled with the scent of harvest vegetables, cooked apples, blackberry tart, and freshly baked bread. It would be a fine English meal, she thought proudly. Even her supremely patriotic son—to put a euphemistic spin on Tom’s views, she thought wryly—would have nothing to complain of in the food itself.

Nor could anyone speak against the beverages provided, at least on the subject of their origin. There was cider, ale, and wine, but the wine was not from the Continent. This unfortunately meant that its taste was not as fine as it might have been, but Merope had decided that it was time for her to make a political statement. With their recent Imperius Curse law, Malfoy and Lestrange had essentially declared her, and most of her guests, to be second-class nobles because of their blood. As much as Merope had wanted to avoid war, she was reluctantly coming around to her son’s opinion on that matter. They had to be deposed, and that likely would mean at least a battle or two to defeat their loyalists.

Lord and Lady Fawley, who had been the first of Tom’s friends’ parents to swear an oath of alliance with Merope, offered a toast to her as soon as the main course was brought out. “To a happy and _fruitful_ marriage for your ladyship!” the wizard proclaimed.

Merope smiled at that, feeling sadness inside at the likelihood that the severe internal injuries she had received during Tom’s birth had probably rendered her unable to conceive. She observed out of the corner of one eye that Tom’s visage tightened at this particular toast. Perhaps it was for the best, then, though she felt bad for Severus. If he did have a child, he could not prove it or claim his son. She felt bad that all she had to offer him was herself… but, she supposed, she apparently was enough for him. That was what mattered.

Merope, Severus, Tom, Hermione, and the guests feasted upon the excellent food for several hours as the daylight dimmed. The guests grew increasingly boisterous as they drank more and more, and by the time the first stars twinkled through the diamond-paned windows, they had lost most of their inhibitions.

Along with the rest of the family, Severus had moderated his own drinking, which left him feeling grouchy and surly at the behavior of their intoxicated guests. When Lord Flint rose from his seat, Severus thought he might draw his wand and strike down the oaf for what he said of his hostess.

“Ey, Snape, it’s dark out! Time for you to show her what a _wizard_ can do,” the lord jeered, raising a tankard of ale.

Severus turned to Merope, whose face was pale and whose lips were thinned in irritation. “They are not going to improve,” he said in a low voice. “If we don’t leave now, this is going to get worse.”

She gazed out at their guests, making note of the amount of drink that they still had, and nodded. “I have heard of beddings in which the bride and groom were physically hoisted into the bed by ribald guests. We don’t want that to happen here.”

Extending her hand to him with dignity yet tenderness, she rose from her seat with him, holding hands. The guests applauded, several of them making catcalls and whistles as well. Next to Merope, Tom gripped his table knife as tightly as though it were a dagger. His face was hard and set.

“I thank all of you, my friends and allies, for attending our wedding today,” Merope said. Several of them raised their tankards and goblets again in a wordless toast. “I look forward to a long and productive alliance with each and every one of you, and joyously anticipate your presence once again next summer to celebrate my son’s marriage to this wonderful young lady.”

Hermione felt a deep, satisfied thrill of vindication at that. Everyone here knew already, of course, but Merope had just reaffirmed it very publicly. In light of the private conversation they had had that summer, it was clear to Hermione that this was meant as additional reassurance that Merope would protect her position. She stole a glance at Tom, whose face was expressionless. Well, at least he was not hostile. Hermione judged herself quite good now at detecting when Tom felt secret hostility to something but concealed the obvious signs.

Arms linked together, Merope and Severus left the banquet hall, ignoring the hoots and cheers from their guests. They flicked their wands, closing the heavy doors behind them, muffling the obnoxious noise.

“Do you suppose that Tom and Hermione will be all right?” he asked her seriously. It felt odd to use their given names, but now that he was family, he knew he had the right to.

“I have no doubt that they are both strong—and _sober—_ enough to take charge and call an end to the feast at the proper time. I expect Tom will want to go to the library anyway,” she added, thinking of the books that she had just opened up to him.

“Good,” Severus growled as they ascended the massive stone stairs. “The less we have to think of such things tonight, the better.” They reached the next floor and turned in the direction of the castle wing that held the family quarters.

Merope’s pulse quickened as she paced down the familiar corridor. She unlocked the door to her bedroom when she reached it and pushed the heavy door inward. Her bedchamber was outfitted now with some personal items of Severus’s; they did not intend to use separate bedrooms. Severus’s old room in the castle had been converted to a personal study for him.

Severus strode into the room confidently, his robes billowing in the air behind him. It was a very attractive look, Merope thought as she walked in and locked the door behind them. He had already cast a spell to light a fire in the bedroom fireplace, and with the aid of magic, it was roaring away, providing some pleasant warmth in the chill autumn air.

He adjusted the drapes to cover the window, then turned to her. “So,” he said, his voice low and dark, _“do_ you want me to ‘show you what a wizard can do’?”

Merope’s eyes flew wide open. “I thought that comment offended you!”

He crossed the room, drawing close to her. “From that loutish man, it is offensive. But is it offensive coming from me?”

Her heart thumped. “No. It’s not.” She reached for him, feeling his firm, lean body under his silken robes.

He embraced her tightly and leaned in to kiss her. Although they had kissed during their engagement, this one felt different. It felt deeper—and that was not just because Severus was plundering her mouth with a passionate intensity that she would not have guessed he had in him. They were married now. She had a second chance at love—and this time, with this man, she knew it would last, because it was real.

They broke apart, breathing heavily as they stared at each other. He was not as traditionally handsome as Sir Thomas had been, she thought idly, but he had unconventional, curiously distinguished good looks—and he carried himself with a dignity and true confidence that her late first husband had always lacked and attempted to conceal with arrogant posturing. She realized that now.

Severus gazed at the woman before him with a new appreciation for her. He too was comparing her favorably to his old flame. Lily might have been passionate and exciting, but she was fickle. It was not a moral judgment; there was just no other way to describe someone who would end an engagement, have an intimate relationship with someone else in the space of a week, and then, when circumstances forced their separation, marry the person she had thrown off unceremoniously. She would not have made him happy. Merope was mature and steady, yet capable of passion too, he was quite certain—and he was about to obtain proof, he decided. Enough of other people in their bedroom. This was _their_ wedding night.

Feeling a sudden surge of boldness, he wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her toward the bed. He fell onto the mattress first, pulling her down with him. She hitched her skirts up and sprawled across him, unintentionally pushing his shoulders into the pillow. A new, mischievous light gleamed in her eyes.

“You are overdressed, Severus,” she said, her voice sultry in a way he had never heard before. It… excited him.

“Well, what do you intend to do about this, _my lady?”_ he drawled.

Surprised at her own boldness, yet satisfied in the rightness of it—she was a fully grown woman, a witch, strong and confident—Merope reached for the neckline of his black outer robe. She slipped it off his lithe form, leaving a silver-grey one beneath. This one too was gone in short order.

“Now _you_ are the one who is overdressed,” he said.

She reached for the clasp holding her pretty olive-green wedding robes together at her neck. Undoing it, she opened the elaborately embroidered outer robe and was about to slip it off her arms when he reached up and did it himself.

She raised an eyebrow at him but did not attempt to stop him as he slipped off her underdress and chemise. It felt odd to be exposed to another person—odd and somewhat vulnerable—but it would be perfectly all right with him, she knew. She leaned over, sprawling over him once more, pressing her flesh against his as they shared another deep kiss.

“Severus,” she moaned as he plundered her mouth once again. His hands, bony and expressive and masculine, found their way to her back.

“You have a beautiful body,” he murmured, pulling away from the kiss.

She flushed; she knew that her facial features were average at best, so any praise of her appearance affected her more than it otherwise might have. “And you,” she replied, running a hand down his chest, “you are handsome in a rugged sort of way.”

He smirked. “I can tell that you think so.”

Merope gazed at him, wide-eyed. His left leg was nestled between her legs. Could he _feel—_

He could. Of course he could. And it excited her even further that he would allude to her… present condition. She reddened, feeling the heat rush to her face, as she climbed off him and lay down on her back. A heavy, hot breath escaped her mouth.

“Come to me,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse. He did not hesitate. In the very next moment, he propped himself up gently over her, his large hands caressing the sides of her face. A muted gasp escaped her throat, and they started to move together, not saying anything else coherent—at least in words. They did not have to.

In a few minutes, they were gasping, panting, as they found release together. The fire had done its job; in conjunction with their own mutual body heat, they were as warm and cozy as a pair of happy newlyweds could wish to be.

“Good night, my dear,” she said, the words strange on her tongue—it had been so long since she had used a term of affection to apply to anyone in this particular context—but right and perfect nevertheless.

“Good night.”

* * *

The next morning, the guests were slow to emerge from their alcohol-induced sleep, and several of them needed potions to combat the symptoms of heavy drinking. Merope and Severus also remained in their bedroom late, though for a very different and much more pleasant reason. The household and visitors were in such a state of disarray compared to their usual schedule that the house-elves brought breakfast to those who were able to eat it in their own bedchambers.

Tom was up early. He had gone to the library after his mother and Severus had—he grimaced at the thought—gone to bed, and the genealogical books that he had not yet read were piled in his room. He would bring them to Hogwarts tonight, when he and Hermione returned to the school. With any luck, one of them would hold enough clues about the Chamber of Slytherin that he could find it in the school, but even if that were not the case, he would finally get to read the history of his wizarding ancestors from the middle of the sixth century to the generation when Slytherin married into the family.

Tom remembered his promise to his mother regarding the Chamber, but he dismissed that. He had not promised her that he would not seek out the Chamber, nor that he would not open it if he did find it. He had just promised that he would not act on the knowledge contained in these books “in a destructive way.”

* * *

_Godric’s Hollow, two months later._

James Potter frowned at his old friend, who stood before him fidgeting and cringing. He gazed around, taking in the sinister canopy of trees in winter, denuded of their foliage, standing starkly against the grey sky.

“This bothers me, Peter,” he said frankly. “It bothers me that you learned the Animagus transformation from us, but never told us—”

“I did! I told you! You and Sirius just didn’t seem interested,” he pleaded.

“I have no memory of this.”

“It was in the Hog’s Head Tavern in Hogsmeade during our last month at Hogwarts,” Pettigrew explained.

“Oh, well, in _that_ case, no wonder,” Potter said. “Why would you tell us when we were drinking? You should have picked a better time, a time when we would actually make note of it and remember.”

A flash of deep anger passed over Pettigrew’s face for a moment, but Potter did not see it. “It still bothers me,” he continued. “After that, you spent all your time serving Morfin Gaunt. Of all people, Peter!”

“I ran away from him after he had my mother _murdered,”_ the short wizard said sullenly, glaring at his old friend.

“That’s what it took?” Potter exclaimed, his voice brimming with self-righteous disapproval.

“You have never tried to escape a tyrant lord, and Snape was always there to do his bidding and put up wards and magical obstacles,” he lied.

Potter scoffed. “Are you a Gryffindor or not, Peter? You could have escaped earlier, and probably even saved your mother as well, if you had just tried harder.”

Pettigrew wanted in that moment to curse his old Hogwarts friend.

“And then his sister took over, and Snivellus decided that the way to get the kind of prestige he’d never gotten from the Snake Lord was to get up the skirts of the Snake Lady. And now you serve _them!_ You must see why this bothers me, Peter, and I can’t understand why you would be unable to tell me whatever this is in my home.”

Pettigrew glanced down quickly, then back up at his friend’s face. “It’s because what I have to tell you relates to your wife.”

Potter scowled. “I already know that Lily is headstrong and willful.”

“You don’t know the extent of it, though.” Pettigrew lowered his voice and began to explain to Potter what he knew of Severus’s affair sixteen years ago with Lily. As he did, he noted with interest and satisfaction that Potter’s brown eyes grew wider by the second. A pink flush suffused Potter’s face, a flush of anger and betrayal.

“And so,” Pettigrew concluded with a flourish, “this could explain your dissatisfaction with young Harry.”

Potter’s nostrils flared. “You go too far with that implication, Peter. The boy is soft because of the influence of his mother and probably Sirius… and that girl at Hogwarts that he used to fancy. _Your_ liege lady’s daughter-in-law,” he said.

“They are not married yet, James.”

Potter dismissed that with a scoff. “They will be. My point is, other influences could account for why Harry is soft. His Hogwarts sweetheart, the Lovegood girl, is also a factor. She visited us during the summer. I would prefer the Weasley girl for him, though this is certainly better than the absurd fantasy that he had in the first months of his first year… but she does not exactly cultivate any _manly_ characteristics in him. They apparently spent the summer reading and exploring the woods outside the village.”

“He is also a Slytherin, though. That happened before he even met her.”

Potter considered that. “A good point. However, it occasionally happens that a child is Sorted into a different house to the rest of his family. It happened with Sirius.” He gazed at Pettigrew. “I am glad you told me, though, and I will certainly have some words with _my wife_ over this betrayal.” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

A flurry of owls, each one of a different color of grey or brown, descended on Harry Potter’s place setting at the breakfast table.

“You know,” remarked Draco Malfoy loudly, observing the activity jealously, “this custom of having birds deliver our messages _while we eat_ is really quite disgusting.” He glared at Harry, who was ignoring Draco’s remarks, and raised his voice so that everyone at the Slytherin table would hear. “They could let mice entrails fall into our bowls—or their own droppings! And any lice or mites that they carry on their feathers would drop into our food when they flap their wings.”

“Ewww,” opined one of Adelaide Lestrange’s hangers-on. Adelaide herself shot Draco a look of disgust but did not comment.

“I really should suggest a ban on the practice… at Hogwarts, at least,” Draco said arrogantly. “I suppose if peasants want to allow it in their own homes, it matters little, as filthy as they live anyway. But Hogwarts is a _castle,_ and wizards and witches with noble blood study here.”

Harry was completely ignoring Draco’s comments, Hermione observed. As he read one letter after another, his face grew more and more distraught. Even Tom, who was seated several places away, was far more interested in Harry’s letters than Draco’s juvenile remarks, but Harry was keeping the content to himself and folding them up as soon as he was finished reading them.

After the meal was over and the young people began to disperse throughout the Great Hall, Hermione—and Luna, who was seated at the next table over and had observed the proceedings with growing concern for him—cornered him in a private alcove in the corridors. Hermione had a terrible feeling that she knew exactly what kind of news the letters had contained. Peter Pettigrew had been a friend of Harry’s father, after all, and perhaps he had felt obliged to tell his old friend what he knew. Harry looked physically ill, his face pale and his features twitchy with what Hermione took to be a mix of conflicting emotions: anger, betrayal, shock, and sadness, certainly.

“What is the matter?” Luna said in her gentle voice. “Is everything all right at home?”

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. “No, it’s not. It’s definitely not.” He paused, his eyelids closing over his green eyes for a moment. Luna touched his arm gently, giving him the strength to continue. “Peter Pettigrew—an old friend of my father who now serves Lady Riddle—had information about….” He breathed again. “About something that happened before my parents were married. A month before. They… were apart briefly, due to an argument, and evidently my mother had a brief romance with….” He gazed apologetically at Hermione. “With Severus Snape.”

Hermione was not about to tell him that she already knew. The last thing he needed was to feel betrayed by a friend who had kept such a secret from him. She arranged her facial features into a convincing look of surprise.

“When my father learned about this from Pettigrew, he confronted my mother and ordered her out of the house when she admitted it.”

Luna gasped. “But this happened before they were married!” she exclaimed. “And their engagement was temporarily broken, too.”

Hermione was not surprised. In the Muggle world, it was completely accepted for a groom to call off a marriage, or have it annulled, if his new bride had never been married before but was found to have slept with someone other than himself. The attitude was also present in the wizarding nobility…. Hermione pushed that thought out of her head, not wanting to think about her own situation. Lady Merope had promised her that she would not let Tom break their contract if Hermione herself did not want that, so there was no danger of her being sent to a Muggle stranger who would object to her non-virginal state. In any case, the only aspect of this news that was a bit unusual to Hermione was that a pureblood wizard without a title would do it. Perhaps Muggle views and values were fairly widespread in some parts of the magical population.

“It didn’t matter to my father,” Harry said miserably. “Mother wrote to me, too, saying that she had taken shelter with her Muggle sister’s family and was perfectly safe—and had enough coin to provide for herself ‘until a certain future date.’”

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked.

“I think it must refer to the content of Sirius’s letter,” Harry said. He met Hermione’s eyes and then gazed at Luna. “He is going to get married soon, and I think my mother intends to move in with them afterward. She likes Marlene McKinnon. Valant,” he added, remembering the widow’s married name.

Luna burst into a smile.

“This news gave him the kick to finally propose,” Harry said. “He hasn’t told my father yet, and asked me not to—he’s going to surprise him on the day of their wedding, apparently, and move in with her once there is nothing my father can do to stop it.”

“Stop it?” Hermione repeated. “No offense, Harry, but what does he think your father could do to stop it? He has no authority over another adult wizard.”

“He does not say, but my father….” Harry trailed off. “My father has always been the leader and decision-maker in the household. Sirius has gone along with that until now.” He sighed deeply once more and ran his hand through his messy hair. “Then there is… Remus Lupin,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Luna instantly knew who this was. Hermione tried to remember everything that Luna had included in her letter the previous summer. “Is that the werewolf?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “He hasn’t sent me a letter yet, but Sirius thinks that he is privately on my mother’s side—and his—rather than my father’s. According to Sirius, he doesn’t trust Pettigrew’s motives.”

“I don’t blame him,” Hermione muttered.

Harry gave her a curious look. “You don’t like Pettigrew?”

“Pettigrew showed up at Parselhall and immediately tried to curry favor with Lady Riddle,” Hermione said. “He tried to divide her from Lord Severus. As you know, that did not work, so I suppose he must have decided to try to ingratiate himself with someone else.”

Harry considered that. “That’s interesting. He may have been in hiding for so long that he thinks he needs to tear down other people to establish himself. He succeeded with my father,” he said bitterly. His eyes reddened. “Luna—Hermione—I support my mother too, and I think my father is wrong, but he’s still my father. These are my parents, and they….” He broke off.

Luna moved closer to him. “I know,” she said. “It is terrible. My mother died, but she and my father never fought… and he always treated her respectfully. She died young… but our parents _will_ die before we do if our lives progress as they ought, so in a way, it is worse when one parent turns on the other like yours. I’m so sorry.”

Hermione could not but agree. She recalled Tom’s action during the summer. Harry would not ever consider a similar deed, but Tom had never known his father, and it had certainly offended and upset him greatly that his father had betrayed his mother—and him. A parental betrayal _was_ worse for the children.

* * *

Tom did not expect a letter of his own that day. Nothing had arrived during breakfast, and it was unusual for owls to come late. Magically bred owls knew to do their job early in the morning unless it was an emergency. When the Riddle family owl soared into the Great Hall during lunch and landed at Tom’s place setting, he was surprised and alarmed about what bad news it might bring. He untied the scroll from its leg and opened it.

 

_My dear son,_

_I have important news for you, which I expect you to share with Lady Hermione at the earliest convenience. I learned it just this morning, and I confess that the news is as much a shock to Lord Severus and me as it undoubtedly will be to you._

 

Tom suddenly knew what he was to read before he did. A towering, volcanic, _infernal_ rage developed in the pit of his stomach as he read on.

 

_I will not belabor making the admission or obfuscate about it. I have found that I am a month with child—in fact, with twins. I realize fully the implications of this for you under current wizarding law. However, Lord Severus and I agree that we will not let unjust policy affect our family decisions. The children will be born, if all goes well naturally. However, they will be Severus’s heirs, and will be in the line of inheritance for Parselhall and Hangleton after you and your heirs. I promise you this as a witch to a wizard._

_Needless to say, I am unwilling to commit any more details on that subject to writing. We will have a serious discussion as a family this Christmas._

_Your affectionate mother._


	36. The Heir of Slytherin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your interest in this fic! I feel like this chapter is very predictable, but it was something I had planned from the beginning, and it is a pivotal event for Tom and Hermione.

Tom read the note from his mother over and over again. With each perusal, his anger grew—and an additional emotion, fear, quickly took shape as well.

_She promises me that I won’t lose my right of inheritance, but how often do people make promises that they cannot keep because other people interfere?_ Tom thought. _I’m sure that this is what she intends, but she has never wanted to fight Malfoy or Lestrange. The situation has deteriorated rapidly over the past year, with two members of the Wizards’ Council_ murdered, _the Council itself dissolved, and appalling new laws in effect. She seems to think that she can defeat Malfoy without violence… or that she can just wait for him to die and let someone else depose Lestrange once Malfoy is dead. It won’t happen. Lucius Malfoy would succeed him, and I have no reason to believe he would be better for us. Besides, there is the unicorn blood I’m almost certain that he drinks—and I wish Regulus Black could confirm that—as well as the question of whether he has secured immortality. Despite Mother’s best intentions, if a Norman lord is still ruling wizarding Britain, one of these brats will be her heir, not me._

Tom’s fury threatened to explode out of control as he thought about it. _Something_ had to be done, and he was utterly certain that he was the only person who both cared enough and grasped the present political reality enough to do it. Potter’s group—or their parents, in any case—were probably more interested in their own power than in anything resembling justice for their people, if the Weasley boy’s vile reaction in October to Malfoy’s appalling law was anything to judge by. They were certainly not to be trusted to do anything that might help Tom, if their shabby and feeble attempts to oppose Malfoy could even produce a change at all—which he seriously doubted. Hermione was obsessed with her studies to the exclusion of all else, it seemed; and Mother’s heart was in the right place, but she was too averse to violence and open conflict for her own good, Tom thought. No, it was up to him. _I have always known it was up to me,_ he thought in superior resignation, _but now I am sure it is._ But what could he do?

He thought about the books that Mother had _finally_ permitted him to read at the time of her wedding, the genealogy and family history books that he had brought back to Hogwarts. They had been very interesting reads indeed. _A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt_ and _The Lords of the Fens_ had filled in the gaps between the time of Arthur and the late tenth century, right before Hogwarts was founded. They confirmed Mother’s claim that the family practiced sibling incest every few generations, unfortunately, as well as some other unsavory details about the Gaunts’ practices before the founding of the school. The family, Tom had learned, had engaged in shocking ritual murder of their Muggle subjects to enhance their own magical power, and they had claimed that these bloody rites were to honor their almost entirely unmixed Celtic heritage. It was disturbing to Tom, who had made his predominant ethnicity and magical status such an important part of his identity. He certainly did not have a problem with killing, nor did he object to killing for sacrificial purposes that would count as “murder” to most, but even then, the circumstances mattered. It was one thing to kill violent usurping invaders who made wizard lords swear fealty to them or face dispossession, who attempted to impose witch-hating Muggle cultural values on a magical community that honored witches’ power, who gave their own blood higher status in the law than that of the families that had lived there for centuries, and who attacked the _children_ of their rivals in _school._ It was quite another to comb through one’s own village for helpless victims, and Tom did not approve of it. Many of his ancestors truly had been terrible lords and terrible people, he had to admit. Not all—there were a number of brilliant scholars who made magical advances or wrote compelling histories—but many. _The Lords of the Fens_ and _A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt_ had been eye-opening to him.

And finally, there was the last book, _Serpent-Tongue: The Life and Mysteries of Salazar Slytherin_. A dark idea nagged at the back of his mind as he contemplated that one. The book had not described the exact location of the Chamber of Slytherin, but if this biography of the man was accurate, then the Chamber unquestionably existed and did indeed contain a basilisk. The biographer, a Hogwarts Master who had been one of Slytherin’s first handpicked pupils, said that his old Master had told him that the creature slumbered in a magical sleep but would awaken at a call in Parseltongue and do the bidding of Parselmouths of the Slytherin line. Tom considered this biography a very credible source of information, given the author’s background. The idea of Slytherin’s creating a secret chamber was bolstered by the information—which was quite new to Tom—that Slytherin had actually _designed_ Castle Leo, the home of Godric Gryffindor, when they were still the best of friends, and moreover, that the castle had an elaborate series of secret passages and a hidden entrance to one of the passages, rather like Hogwarts itself. That could be _very_ useful information if and when the conflict progressed far enough that they could mount a challenge against Lucius Malfoy, who now occupied the place….

It was unfortunate that Slytherin had not shared more information with his pupil, but most likely the great wizard had meant to save that for his family. The book also did not confirm Tom’s theory that Slytherin had been a Seer who had foreseen the Norman invasion and had left the basilisk behind for his heir to use to remove the occupiers from power. Of course, that was _certainly_ not the kind of information that a schoolmaster would tell a student, Tom had reasoned. Indeed, the biography ended not with the death of Slytherin, but his disappearance from Britain. Perhaps he had gone to Ireland, the biographer mused, but no one knew.

But whatever glorious possibilities there might be in the future for seizing a Malfoy-occupied property, the possibility that existed _now_ was to find the Chamber in Hogwarts and open it, to release the basilisk and claim it as his own rightful weapon in the coming war. He needed the advantage that the fearsome creature would offer. _And it would be a way to claim my status as the true heir of Slytherin,_ he thought, _rather than letting one of—those two of Snape’s—claim the basilisk in seventeen years instead. It is mine if I choose to claim it, so I should claim it now and make my point._

If the creature would wake from its slumber at the call of a Parselmouth, then perhaps it would make a response in the same language that only Tom could hear, and he could track down the location to the chamber that way. At least he knew that an entrance was most likely on the ground floor; any chamber large enough to conceal a basilisk had to be underground, and it seemed far too dangerous to have long multi-story shafts that would be very difficult to escape if Slytherin’s heir needed to make a quick exit. That considerably limited the scope of the search.

_Should I do it?_ Tom wondered, his courage momentarily failing him at the thought of such an undertaking. What if he accidentally looked in its eyes? Parselmouths were subject to the fatal gaze of the basilisk just as anyone else was. If he did this, he was trusting that the creature actually would regard him as its new master and obey him.

_The biography of Slytherin says that it will,_ he reassured himself. _He told one of his students that it would obey Parselmouths who were his own descendants. He would have had no reason to lie about that to his pupil._

Tom considered the calendar. In three days, the school would close for Christmas. He might not find the Chamber entrance in that short a period of time, but if he did, he could wait until the final day that the school hosted students before opening it. That would minimize the risk.

_And then I will free it and take it home, to protect the castle where Slytherin’s blood now dwells, until I need to use it in war,_ he thought. There were dungeons in Parselhall, just like any other castle. There the basilisk could stay until needed.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall._

Merope genuinely had not thought it possible that she could conceive again. She had been certain that the injuries she had sustained during Tom’s birth had rendered her womb too delicate, too scarred, for any pregnancy to last long enough for her to detect. She was still unsure if this one would quicken, let alone conclude in a live birth—or two—but it had already proceeded farther than she had believed possible.

She was worried for a number of reasons. First, there was the constant dread that she would miscarry, of course. _At least I am married to a master of potions,_ she comforted herself—and indeed, Severus already had devised a potions regimen for her to follow that would help to protect her health. Such things were not infallible, but it was unquestionably better than nothing. Severus’s reaction to her news had warmed her heart. Naturally, his uncertainty about whether Harry Potter was his son by blood—and his assumption that he would not have been able to have any children with Merope—had made the news even more thrilling than it would already be. He was very protective of her now, or at least of her physical health. Merope stifled an amused smile at the memories of Severus’s manner when he recommended the potions to her—brusque and matter-of-fact about the medicinal qualities, very much the potioneer that he was, but with a strain of personal warmth due to the fact that she was carrying _his_ offspring—and all of that tempered with a nervous anxiety that his solicitousness for her physical health must not overstep into condescension toward her capabilities. It was thrilling, in a way, that someone did care about her in this way, and Merope had nothing to complain of in Severus’s concern and advice. _He respects me as Sir Thomas never did,_ she thought.

Beyond her fear for the pregnancy itself were more worldly concerns. Belatedly she realized that perhaps she should have told Tom explicitly not to tell anyone except Hermione. She hoped he would have—not the sense; he did have that—but the self-discipline not to explode in fury in front of people like the Malfoy boy or the Lestrange girl. She and Severus had agreed to keep the pregnancy a secret for as long as they could. She was not sure what Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange would do with the information, and she did not care to find out. She was sure that her marriage was already infuriating enough to them.

Then, too, there was the matter of Tom’s inheritance. She could keep her promise to him only if Malfoy’s law were repealed—which, she realized, meant that Malfoy and Lestrange themselves would have to be removed. It was a pity that the house-elf who acted as a spy for Regulus Black could not murder his masters, but anyone as malevolent as Malfoy would give _that_ order to servants that he undoubtedly abused. No, Malfoy and Lestrange had to go, and that meant that she, Severus, their allies, and—yes, she acknowledged it—Tom and Hermione needed to work together to formulate a plan for replacing them. That was one thing that she intended to happen over Christmas at the family discussion she had mentioned in her letter to Tom. They had to go, or else her word would be worthless—a promise she couldn’t keep.

_But even if we achieve everything that we need to, what does this mean for Hermione?_ Merope thought with some disquiet. In that scenario, Tom could inherit—but the twins would still be his heirs if he did not have any children of his own. If all went well, he no longer needed to continue the line himself, which meant that one rationale for his marrying Hermione had dried up. If Merope ended up having to compel the marriage against Tom’s wishes, and Tom could not even tell himself that it was necessary for the sake of the family, it could be genuinely miserable for Hermione. More than ever, Merope hoped that Tom’s behavior would prove to be temporary and that he would return to her in his heart.

Merope sighed. This should be a happy moment. The worries about the pregnancy itself were inevitable, but the political worries and her concerns about Tom and Hermione were casting a pall. Guilt and sadness spread over her at that realization.

“Merope,” said Severus.

She glanced around and met his gaze with hers. A smile formed on her face. He was obviously worried too, but this had softened his features and removed some of the bitterness and cynicism that had defined him for the past three years. As she walked across the parlor and linked her arm with his affectionately, she resolved to focus on the good, since there was little to nothing that she could currently do about the worries.

* * *

_Hogwarts._

The evening of the day that he received his mother’s letter, Tom finally decided to tell Hermione about it. He was not going to tell her about his plans to look for the Chamber. If he found it, he would let her know then.

She was seated in the Slytherin common room, reading a book. Potter sat next to her, engrossed in his own thoughts. Tom remembered suddenly that he had received several letters of his own that morning. He had not been included in the discussion that Potter had with Hermione and Luna Lovegood, and he had completely forgotten about Potter’s letters after his own arrived. He wondered what had happened.

Hermione closed her book and turned to Potter, which prompted a spark of jealousy from Tom even though he knew that there was nothing between them except friendship now. “I think you should still go home,” she said in a low voice. “Your mother, at least, would like to see you, as would Sirius. And you should congratulate him on his betrothal.”

Harry considered that and nodded. “That’s true. I didn’t think of that, but you’re right. It means that I will have to see my father, though….”

“You should see him,” Hermione urged. “He might even relent and see how unreasonable he has acted once he sees you again.”

Harry seemed skeptical at that, but he was convinced to go to his hometown for his mother and godfather’s sake. He managed a weak smile before rising from his chair and heading to the door leading to the boys’ corridor.

Tom seized the opportunity. As he sat down next to Hermione in the spot where Potter had just been, she stiffened. “Tom,” she acknowledged. “What is the matter?”

He scowled at the news he was about to relate. Scanning the room with his piercing gaze to make sure that none of their enemies were there, he lowered his voice almost to a whisper anyway. “I received a letter from my mother today,” he growled under his breath. “She is with child.”

Hermione gasped. “She _is?”_

“Don’t be loud. I don’t want anyone else to know. Yes, she is, and apparently it’s _twins.”_ His handsome face was twisted unattractively in irritation.

Something else occurred to her. “Malfoy’s inheritance law—”

“She _claims_ that she won’t let that happen,” he said sullenly.

His voice was clipped and cold, and it surprised Hermione. “If she agrees that… well… they must go,” she said almost inaudibly, “then what is the problem?”

“The problem is that she doesn’t have a feasible plan to make that happen, as far as I’m aware,” he spat. He rose from his seat. “I just wanted you to know, because she said I was to tell you, and after all, we are going to Parselhall in a couple of days. That was all. Have a good night, Hermione.”

Hermione was affronted at this rudeness and the clear implication that he had told her only because his mother had said to and because _he_ might get scolded in a couple of days if he disobeyed. Her eyebrows narrowed, and she scowled back at him as he stalked toward the boys’ bedchambers. The news was upsetting to him; she understood that. But there was no call to be so rude to _her._ _He barely values me at all anymore,_ she thought. _Our relationship has reverted to what it was in the very first days, three and a half years ago._ The emotion that accompanied this thought was not sadness, as it had been for a while, but anger.

* * *

The next morning, Tom had felt a bit bad about his interaction with Hermione. He realized he had taken out his frustration about Mother’s pregnancy on her. But what was to be done? Hermione remained stubborn, obsessed with her studies, and once again had chosen her friendship with Potter over him. By the following summer, she would either have to open up to him again or accept the sad consequences of personal estrangement in their marriage. That was how he saw it. He did not _want_ her to choose the latter, but he supposed that she might. They would not be the first such noble couple—or the last. In any case, he had other things with which to concern himself right now.

The day was free for him to conduct his searches. The professors were not teaching anything, and the pupils who were planning to visit their families were gathering their belongings and beginning to leave, a slow but steady trickle. The bustle on the ground floor of Hogwarts made it flatly impossible for Tom to consider _opening_ the Chamber—if he could find it—unless he wanted numerous fatalities, and since no one at the school was personally responsible for the troubles of his family _or_ a foul Norman Muggle who tried wrongfully to control witches and wizards, he did not. However, he could search for it and form a plan for opening it if his search proved fruitful.

Tom had considered how best to keep any stragglers—or Hogwarts masters—away from the site of the Chamber entrance if he did find it. Any spell to discourage them would likely be detectable, and it would just provoke investigation of the place. It would _raise_ the risk. After considering it, he settled on a very simple but hopefully very effective solution: making a mess in the hallway outside the room that was the entrance, slightly removed from the door to whatever that room might be. He did have some ideas in mind; he first wanted to check out the schoolroom where his biography of Slytherin had told him the great man had taught his pupils. The room was now used for Transfiguration studies, which had been _Dumbledore’s_ speciality—and Minerva McGonagall’s. A pair of Gryffindors. It was almost as if the choice had been a deliberate insult to Slytherin, Tom thought. If not for the fact that they were Malfoys, he would almost approve of the fact that alumni of Slytherin House now occupied Gryffindor’s castle.

Tom slipped unnoticed into the schoolroom in the midst of the confusion and activity of students who were leaving for their homes. His magical senses were much more sensitive now than they had been four years ago, he thought idly. It was true that a witch or wizard’s magic developed as the person did. As he examined the schoolroom, he detected the magical residue of attempted spells to transfigure the myriad of things on which students practiced.

There was something very peculiar at the front of the classroom. For some reason, Tom thought of Crookshanks, Hermione’s feline familiar. _Of course,_ he remembered, _Professor McGonagall can transform into a cat. And obviously Crookshanks has some magical abilities too; he’s not a common cat. It seems that I can identify that specific magical signature now._ This was interesting—and promising. It meant that if he found the entrance itself—which should be magically concealed, surely—then he would also be able to detect an extremely magically powerful serpent.

He continued examining the large stone room, focusing on the walls for any sign of unusual magic that could not be the residue of Transfiguration. As he reached the fourth wall, his face was growing sour. Nothing had turned up. He then considered the floor and stalked toward the center of the schoolroom. His walk around the perimeter would have revealed any magic trapdoor in the floor that was close to a wall. This search also came up empty.

Disappointed, Tom slumped against the floor in the back of the room, trying to determine a logical next step in his search. No other room seemed obvious to him based on his reading about Slytherin. Then a door caught his eye.

He knew it was the door to the supply closet, and he had been doubtful that Slytherin would conceal an entrance to his grand chamber in such a grubby, ordinary place as a storage room. But… it _was_ a room, and perhaps it was not storage in Slytherin’s day. Tom opened the door and continued his search of the premises.

Quickly he realized that there was magic in this room—and he detected the magic of a serpent. His pulse quickened with anticipation. _How could Dumbledore and McGonagall not have detected this?_ Tom thought. He listened carefully through his magic-detecting sense and thought he heard a voice casting a spell in his ancestral tongue. _Is it just for me? Is this magic of the blood, calling out to me because I have this blood? Maybe they can’t hear it or sense it._ That thought brought a satisfied smile to Tom’s face as he began casting diagnostic spells at the stone floor. Very quickly, one caused a green glowing outline of a large rectangle to appear—just large enough, perhaps, to move a basilisk through.

Tom instantly focused on this spot. He cast the spell repeatedly until it was outlining the grain of the wood used in the trapdoor. He closed his eyes—just in case—and spoke sibilant, mysterious words in Parseltongue. The magical mask of stone veneer melted away, revealing the wooden trapdoor to Tom’s reopened eyes. He took a deep breath.

_I need to make my preparations,_ he thought. _I need to get something to blindfold the basilisk. This is not directly off the hall, though, so I don’t think I want to create a mess in the hall—magical water, or whatnot—after all. It would just draw attention here. I could create a blindfold by magic… but the basilisk itself is a powerfully magical creature. Best to have something fully material._ Tom considered it. _Oh—and there should be far fewer pupils tomorrow. Or tonight._

The idea of opening and visiting the Chamber that night quickly took hold in his mind.

* * *

That evening, Tom crept quietly up the stairs to the ground floor with a long strip of silky white fabric under one arm. For a castle, Hogwarts was surprisingly short on basic supplies other than food. _Magical_ supplies it had in plenty, but not quite as many ordinary materials. There was no castle tailor or seamstress, and the elves only repaired pupils’ robes if necessary. They did not sew new clothing, so they did not keep fabric about. This was a bed sheet that Tom had swiped from the sickroom. That room was empty—as he had expected it to be on the night after many students had left for home—and the room seemed ghostly to Tom, even though no ghosts were there at that moment. One bed in particular troubled him, though it looked just like the others. He had just felt a very strong evil premonition associated with that bed, though whatever foresight this was did not give him any details. He had pulled the thin sheet he now carried from a different bed, not wanting to disturb that one.

Tom entered the Transfiguration classroom, closed the door behind him, and progressed to the storage closet.

* * *

Although most students had gone on the first day that it was allowed to them, some were going to make their journeys on the second day. Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood, and Ginevra Weasley—though _not_ the Weasley boys—had decided to do this. Neville Longbottom, whose family lived in Hogsmeade, also could stay at the castle until the last minute. These four decided to have a meeting—not a formal meeting of the Friends of the Founders, but a meeting of the four of them plus Hermione.

“I was hoping that you might have a better idea of what your parents—and older brothers—were doing,” Hermione said haltingly to Ginny Weasley. “Half the school heard your brothers’ approval of Malfoy’s Imperius law about married witches a couple of months ago. It really shocked me, I have to say.” Luna Lovegood nodded heavily in agreement, her eyes wide.

Ginny did not defend her brothers. “Why do you suppose I did not leave with them?” she asked pointedly. “I wish I didn’t have to go at all. That comment was nothing unusual for Ronald—or for the twins, for that matter, though they usually couch their comments in ‘humor.’ Ronald is just spiteful and ugly about it. But this has been going on for several years. I don’t think my father approves, but he is not bold enough to put an end to it, and my mother encourages it, because she thinks that any witch that one of her _precious boys_ speaks against must deserve it.”

That would have been befuddling to Hermione not long ago, but her own mother’s irritating letter urging her to overlook Tom’s behavior in the name of “duty” had opened her eyes. It sounded as though Ginny’s mother was far worse.

“Tell her about the argument with your mother,” Neville urged her gently. “She might as well know. It could affect us all.”

Ginny scowled, and next to her, so did Luna. “All right,” she began grudgingly. “Apparently, my mother and Harry’s father think that _Harry_ and I should be together. That was what they expected to happen when they allied under the Friends of the Founders’ banner, but it didn’t quite turn out that way.”

“It’s silly,” Luna interjected, “because Neville’s parents are also allies, and my father supports the overthrow of Armand Malfoy.”

“Evidently, as soon as one’s parents get involved in political power games, this becomes a danger,” Ginny growled. “One doesn’t have to have a title. In any case, I told my mother that it was not going to happen, and she became angry with me. And Harry’s family, of course….” She trailed off.

“I don’t have to stay with my father,” Harry said.

Hermione considered what she had heard. It did not elucidate the greater game of her friends’ families… but it was intriguing. She remembered, suddenly, something Merope had said the summer before last, the summer that Luna had visited at Parselhall. _“The Lovegoods are an interesting family.”_ “Luna, do you think that perhaps everyone else’s parents don’t trust your father? What does he do?”

“He is a scholar and bookbinder by trade,” Luna said. “His researches have led to some conclusions that many people do not like.” She gazed out primly.

Hermione thought about that. In that case, the other Friends of the Founders might not trust him. They might want someone who could be assured to be on their side, rather than following where the facts led him. In fact, nothing seemed more likely: The Longbottom family renounced their title over politics and now Neville’s father was mayor of Hogsmeade, the Weasleys of eighty years ago also renounced a title, and Harry’s father’s family had been dispossessed by the Malfoys. Their perspectives would be inherently political—and without the mitigation, the softening of extreme views, that reading and scholarship could afford. Nobles’ perspectives would be quite political, but Hermione’s friends’ families would not have the time to devote to scholarship like Merope and Severus—or the coin to amass big libraries. For many witches and wizards, their years at Hogwarts would be the only lengthy time in their lives that they had the chance to study and read.

“You should make your decisions for your lives as you see fit,” Hermione said sincerely to her friends. “You don’t have to let your parents bully you into matches that are not your first choice.”

Luna patted Harry’s hand and smiled. Neville awkwardly, shyly grinned at Ginny. Ginny herself, however, was eyeing Hermione with a shrewd, pointed look on her face. “Do you?” she asked.

“It’s different for me,” she said at once. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry Tom. He has just been difficult….”

“For two years.”

“We have had arguments,” she admitted. “That has been the extent of it. If he tried to _harm_ me, of course that would be different. But I think he will warm to me again this summer, if not before then.” She rose from her seat. “I had better go back to my dormitory. I still haven’t packed!”

Ginny and Luna chuckled at that as she left. She smiled as she closed the door behind her and headed down the many flights of stairs.

When she reached the ground floor, Hermione saw a shadow, long and attenuated in the dim light of the corridors. She hid herself behind a pillar of an archway. Her eyes widened when the shadow’s owner appeared: Tom. _What is he doing, prowling about the castle at night?_ Hermione thought. He entered one of the schoolrooms—the Transfiguration room, it appeared—his long shadow trailing after him. The shadow was cut off when he closed the door.

For a moment, Hermione was resolved to continue to the lower level and the Slytherin common room. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned the corner.

* * *

Locked inside the closet, Tom hissed the command in Parseltongue that had made the trapdoor appear earlier in the day. The wooden, hinged door became visible once again. He considered for a moment, gathered up the fabric, and lifted the trapdoor. A dark tunnel descending into the bowels of the school yawned before him.

_The basilisk is said to be in a magical sleep,_ he thought. _I should be able to enter its sleeping area safely… but I will be sure to keep my eyes closed or trained on the floor._

He took a deep breath and stepped into the pit. The tunnel appeared to be a slide of sorts, which was unnerving. That would be difficult to escape quickly if it became necessary. Perhaps, though…. Tom flicked his wand. More glowing green appeared on the curving, downward-sloping tunnel. _It can change shape,_ he realized.

Crouched over the floor, he opened his palm and cast a spell to make a cut, which he pressed against the wall of the tunnel. Before his eyes, the smooth surface transformed into a set of stone stairs that he could easily descend. He took another deep breath and entered the tunnel, lighting the tip of his wand.

Down he descended for some time. When he reached the end, his eyes widened. Magnificent architecture spread out before him, carved snakes with green sparkling eyes in seemingly every crevice. A great sculpture of what Tom presumed was Salazar Slytherin’s head overlooked all of it.

“What can you tell me, great-great-great-grandfather?” he murmured, taking in the sights in awe. “What secrets did you keep? Did you know what was coming less than a lifetime—a wizard’s lifetime—from the founding of this school? And what became of you at last? You were said to have disappeared… but did the other Founders murder you? Might Gryffindor have spread lies about the disagreement he had with you, after you could not defend yourself?”

The stone statues offered no answer.

Tom gazed around the chamber. No basilisk was in sight—nor were there any books or other magical artifacts. It was a pity, but if Slytherin had constructed this chamber to be the domicile of the basilisk, it would not make sense to fill it with other things. He noticed a great arched corridor that led into an unknown anteroom, and his magical senses prickled. The basilisk was in there… and it was indeed asleep.

Gazing fixedly at the floor, Tom began to speak in Parseltongue: _“I am here, Great Serpent of Slytherin. I am the heir you have waited for, and I summon you from your long rest to serve me as I finish your first master’s work.”_

Rustlings from the antechamber sounded as the immense creature awakened from its sleep. Tom repeated his words for the basilisk as it entered the main chamber where he stood, keeping his eyes focused downward.

_“The heir of the master? The master is dead, then?”_

Tom sensed the presence of the huge snake mere feet away from him. He stole a dangerous glance out of the corner of one eye. A vast scaled body rested nearby. _“I assume so, Great Serpent. It has been many years. But I am here, and I am of his blood.”_

_“You speak it… and I recognize the smell of your blood. You are the master’s blood, indeed. You have come to finish his work?”_

_“Yes,”_ Tom said eagerly. _“The world of witches and wizards is overrun with invaders. My own mother, who is also of the blood, is under threat. You are a powerful creature, and I command you to protect the heirs of the master’s blood and drive out the intruders.”_

_“Then I am at your service, my lord.”_

Tom considered. _“I must first place a blindfold over your eyes, so that you do not accidentally kill allies or innocents. We would not want that.”_

The basilisk paused for a moment. _“As you wish.”_

Tom waved his wand around. The bed sheet sailed into the air and gently wrapped around the creature’s head.

_“I can still see through this,”_ the snake remarked. _“It is not opaque.”_

That did not surprise Tom, and presumably it would still prevent someone from looking “directly” into the animal’s eyes, but he was not going to risk _himself._ He instructed the basilisk, _“I will ascend the steps first and then transform them into a tunnel up which you can glide comfortably. I will tell you when to come.”_

_“As you command, Heir and Lord.”_

Tom preened at the subservient tone of the basilisk as he began to ascend the steps. His heart was soaring. This was _historic._ It would make a difference—no, _the_ difference—in the coming war. He could bring this basilisk to the very gates of Malfoy Manor and Malfoy’s vassals would drop at the mere sight of it. Tom pictured Rodolphus Lestrange, stationed outside Armand Malfoy’s private rooms, getting an eyeful of it and crumpling to the ground. _Then I would burst into Malfoy’s sanctum,_ Tom thought as he climbed the stairs, _and perhaps he would even have a goblet of shining silver blood in hand—but it would do him no good in that moment. He would gape at the basilisk and then crash to the stone floor, the goblet falling from his withered hand, spilling its contents everywhere… and if he has a Horcrux, then he would be disembodied. I would have it eat his body so he could not repossess it…._

_Unless they know I’m coming and bring chickens,_ he thought with sudden disquiet. The delightful revenge fantasy faded away with that cold consideration. For such a magnificent, lethal creature, it was horrifyingly easy to kill with the crow of a rooster. He would have to keep this weapon secret until he was ready to use it.

Tom reached the top of the stairs and found himself in the storage closet once more. He swished his wand, turning the stairs into a smooth tunnel once more. _“It is ready for you, Great Serpent,”_ he intoned to the creature below. In a second, he heard the telltale signs of movement as the basilisk slithered up the tunnel. He felt proud and satisfied enough that he thought he might burst.

The great head appeared in the open trapdoor. Tom looked away at once, averting his gaze from the blindfolded yellow eyes. _“I will open this door and let you out,”_ he said. _“Then I will take you out of this castle and find a secret spot where you can hide until I can bring you home.”_ He went to the door that led to the Transfiguration schoolroom and opened it.

He had only half a second to recognize Hermione’s presence at the doorway—her brown eyes wide with alarm and shock, her mouth open in an almost perfect O, her wand hand raised—before she tumbled to the floor.

Tom could hardly think. His first thought was horror—the fear that seemed to pierce straight to his soul that the basilisk had killed her. He collapsed to his knees and cried out as he grabbed her wrist.

Her eyes were still open, and her skin was already cold. That shouldn’t be…. Completely oblivious to everything else, his mind consumed with her and her alone, he realized that he felt a pulse beneath the cold, clammy… _unyielding…_ skin.

She was not dead. She was Petrified, but she was alive.

Tom’s heart rate increased, or perhaps he just became more aware of it as that relieved thought poured over him. _“Return to the Chamber!”_ he hissed in Parseltongue at the basilisk. He did not look back, but he heard the creature’s descent back down the tunnel. Once its slithering noise was far in the distance, he muttered in Parseltongue, _“Be concealed.”_ The trapdoor vanished, appearing as a normal stone floor once again.

_The basilisk told me that it could see through the fabric,_ Tom thought, panicking. _It could see through it… and Hermione could see its eyes through the filter of the weave. That is why she wasn’t killed. But what can be done to revive her? There is a potion… a restorative… but I can’t remember how to make it._ He gathered her frigid, stiff form up in his arms. _I can’t. I can’t remember…._

A shadow was advancing down the corridor outside the schoolroom, accompanied by a light. Tom grimaced. If one of the masters caught him—

He could open the trapdoor again and take Hermione into the Chamber itself to hide—

Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn poked their heads into the classroom. “Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed. “And Lady Hermione!” he added, springing forward when he saw her unconscious form.

Dumbledore was giving Tom a look as hard as steel and as cold as ice. “Is this the place, then?” he said.

Tom instantly knew that Dumbledore was aware of what had just happened—and why would he not have? He was the High Master of the school, and it was common knowledge that Tom was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

Tom nodded, not looking into the High Master’s bright blue eyes. “She has been Petrified,” he said to Slughorn, shame filling every syllable. His fantasy about having the basilisk kill Malfoy and Lestrange was long forgotten. “I don’t remember the formula—”

“The principal ingredient is chopped mandrake,” Slughorn said, “which I have.” As Tom rose to his feet, still carrying Hermione’s limp form in his arms, the stout potions master touched her forehead. “Yes, you’re right, of course—that’s what it is. She’ll be all right, Tom,” he said reassuringly. “The potion will have to brew overnight, but she will be perfectly fine in the morning!”

Tom knew that Slughorn was trying to make him feel better, but it felt ghastly and inappropriate right now—though he could not articulate even to himself why. _Why was Hermione here?_ he thought as they left the room and headed up to the infirmary. _What was she doing out? Was she with Potter and his friends? They drew her out of the common room—out of safety—and then she followed… me? She must have seen me…._

As he attempted to cast blame upon Potter, upon Potter’s friends from other Houses, upon Hermione herself, he felt even worse. He gazed down at her face, her eyes still wide and unseeing. It was wrong, all wrong. He had seen Hermione making such an expression of surprise before, of course, but it should never be affixed to her face like this.

They reached the infirmary and went inside. Barely aware of his own actions, Tom moved over to a bed and set Hermione down—and then he realized that it was the bed about which he’d had a bad feeling. At that realization, he wanted to be sick.

“I will stay here,” Slughorn said to Dumbledore, “and awaken the healer.” He nodded at the quarters of the school healer, which were just off the infirmary itself. “Once she’s made aware of it, I’ll be in the potions laboratory to brew the restorative.”

Dumbledore turned to Tom. “It is a long walk to my office. The room next door, then.”

Tom did not dare disobey.


	37. Dark Night of the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much as always! I hope that the events of this chapter aren’t a disappointment. The event that you are all waiting for _will happen,_ and I expect every one of you can guess when after reading this. But I want to make it worthy of the wait and buildup.
> 
> Credit where due: The end sequence of this chapter is heavily inspired by Chapter 16 of [my pal bainsidhe’s _Dragon Age_ fic From the Ashes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4430924). I say this because she’ll recognize the inspiration. ;)

Dumbledore closed the door behind himself and Tom and regarded the young wizard with a look of deep disapproval on his face. “You are fortunate, Lord Thomas. You are fortunate that this monster did not _kill_ Lady Hermione, and you are also fortunate that the wizarding populace is in a state of unease. Your lady mother obviously must know about this—and I rather expect that Lady Hermione will see to _that,”_ he said with a hard look, “but luckily for you, the present political situation makes it… inadvisable… for me to allow this information to spread any farther. Lord Malfoy would certainly use it against all of us.”

Tom had not even thought about that, but of course, it was true. He remained silent as the High Master continued to speak.

“I am not going to waste time scolding you for the fact that you harmed Lady Hermione,” he said. “You _should_ feel remorseful for that yourself, and if you do not, then my words certainly will not make a difference.”

Tom gaped at Dumbledore. “Of course I feel bad about that!” he protested. “I did not mean for the beast to endanger anyone in the school, let alone her! I would like to see her as soon as Master Slughorn gives her the restorative potion.”

“The last thing Lady Hermione will remember upon awakening is catching a glimpse of Slytherin’s monster. The professor will have to explain to her what happened and why she is in the sickroom, and you should consider the possibility that she may not wish to see you immediately after that.”

Anger rose in Tom’s chest. “I have the right—”

“You are not in charge of this castle, _Lord Thomas._ I am. If Lady Hermione _wishes_ to see you when she wakes up, that is a different matter, but I will not force it upon her.”

“You would keep me from her? It’s unlawful to kidnap someone else’s spouse, even in one’s own castle….”

“Hermione is not your wife, and no one is ‘kidnapping’ her. While she is a pupil in this castle, I am responsible for her. You will _not_ be admitted to the sickroom unless she asks for you.” Dumbledore eyed him dubiously. “What I mean to discuss with you is the Chamber itself. I have known of its existence; I was one of the Founders’ own pupils, after all. But I have not known where its entrance was. I presume it requires words to be spoken in Parseltongue.”

Tom nodded. “There is a ward in Parseltongue, but I think it is also linked to the blood of Slytherin.”

“As master of this school, it is not acceptable to me for a lethal monster to reside in its bowels, accessible to a single student,” Dumbledore said severely.

“You would kill it?” he exclaimed in horror. If Dumbledore had the basilisk killed, that could mark the end of his dreams of revolution. He would not cooperate, he vowed. The Chamber would not open except to a command in Parseltongue, and he would not speak it on the command of someone who wished to kill the basilisk. “Professor—please—it belongs to my family—”

“You said that you did not mean for it to endanger anyone in the school. What _was_ your intention, may I ask? What did you mean to do?”

“I was going to take it _out_ of the school and settle it in the dungeons of my mother’s castle.”

“How were you planning to get it there? You cannot Apparate with such a creature.”

Tom had not considered that part. He temporized. “I would have taken it outside the school grounds and… ordered the house-elves to bring a cart,” he said. “I would have put it back to sleep after it was inside.”

“That would have been a long journey for you.”

Anger surged in him once again. “Are you implying that I’m lying to you? I tell you, I did not mean to harm any students or professors with it! If I had, why would I have brought it out at night, _after_ most of the students went home?”

“Mind your tongue! I do believe you when you say you didn’t mean to harm anyone here, but your ‘plan’ for getting it home seems half-baked at best. I will not have this creature in the school, Lord Thomas. I would strongly advise against bringing it to your own castle, but if you insist upon it, you have until the school reopens in January to work out a _feasible_ plan for removing it safely. Otherwise, I will take the necessary measures.”

Tom glared back. “And how do you suppose you will do that, Professor? The Chamber only opens to Parselmouths, and only those of Slytherin’s blood can control the basilisk.”

“Your lady mother is a Parselmouth of Slytherin’s blood,” Dumbledore said pointedly. “I expect that when she learns of the danger, she will gladly help.”

“You would pressure my mother—?”

“I would _ask_ your mother. I meant what I said. That basilisk will be out of my school soon, one way or the other.” He peered at Tom icily. “I recommend that you go to bed, Lord Thomas. The restorative potion will not be ready until daybreak anyway, and I will not let you sit in the sickroom overnight.”

With that, Dumbledore stalked to the door, opened it, and walked away briskly, leaving Tom to his thoughts.

* * *

Tom considered returning to the Chamber to brood and think there, but he decided against it. If he had to devise a plan to keep Slytherin’s basilisk from being destroyed, it was best not to do something that this old man would probably consider blatant defiance. He returned to his bedchamber in the Slytherin dormitories, a headache now throbbing away, and plopped down on his bed to think.

_Hermione almost died,_ he thought. _The basilisk almost killed her. It would have if I had not blindfolded it. I wish there had been thicker material in the castle! But she will be all right in the morning, after Slughorn gives her the mandrake potion._

_I almost lost Hermione. It has been two years since we had our first fight, and that’s quite long enough. I almost lost her, and it is time to make amends. Dumbledore may ban me from the sickroom, but he cannot keep her locked inside it forever. When she comes out, we will finally talk. Surely she will understand that this was completely an accident. We can talk about the things we argued about, the alliances and the Adelaide Lestrange matter. I really do want to have that talk now, and I will listen to what she has to say. I have to get her back. She cannot think that I did this on purpose._ Tom sighed, rubbing his aching temples. He was hopeful that the discussion would go well… but there was still a voice of doubt deep in his mind. He could not pinpoint just what it might be about this plan that made that part of him skeptical, though. Dismissing the concern, he rolled off the bed and stumbled over to the cabinet where he kept general-purpose medicinal potions. Finding one that would cure a headache, he gulped down the requisite amount and fell onto the bed again to wait for it to take effect.

_Hermione is lucky, in a way,_ he thought, staring at the ceiling. _She is unconscious. I am the one who will have a terrible night._

* * *

Hermione awoke the next morning choking, her mouth full of a foul-tasting fluid. Her vision was fuzzy, and her entire body ached, as if she had not moved a muscle for hours. She closed her eyes, which seemed unnaturally dry, to allow them to lubricate. She swallowed the remaining liquid—she realized, on some level, that it must be a potion, so it was presumably safe—and felt the pain in her arms and legs lessen as she did. Her eyes seemed to settle as well, and she opened her eyelids and blinked several times before recognizing Professor Slughorn and Mistress Pomfrey, the school healer.

“Uggh,” she groaned, rising from her pillow. This was not her own room; it was the infirmary. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, but she found that she could not. The last thing that she remembered was… it suddenly hit her. _Tom was in the storage closet with a giant snake beside him, its eyes blindfolded, but I could still see two great yellow blurs through the cloth._ Hot rage flooded her body as she realized what this meant had happened.

“Lady Hermione,” Slughorn said solicitously, “are you feeling all right?” He looked anxious. “You have just recovered from being Petrified….”

She blinked again. “Petrified,” she repeated. “For how long?”

“Just overnight! We had all the ingredients on hand to make the restorative draught for you.”

She considered that. It meant that… today was the day she was supposed to go to Parselhall. _With Tom,_ she thought, the mere thought of his name in her mind sending a new spark of anger through her. Where _was_ he, anyway? He was responsible for this, and he did not even have the decency to show up when she was awakened?

“Where is Lord Thomas?” she asked tartly, not caring that Slughorn grimaced at the formality of her question and the fact that she did not call him by his nickname.

“He is probably in the Slytherin common room or his bedchamber,” Slughorn said.

“I see.” She threw the sheet down the bed and got to her feet. She was still dressed in the day robes she had worn yesterday, so she did not need to worry about being decent. “In that case, if I am well now, I had best go so that I can gather up my belongings.” She gazed at the healer for confirmation of this.

“Yes,” Mistress Pomfrey said, “you are quite well now. Careful on your feet, though, my lady!” she added as Hermione wobbled a bit.

As she made her way to the Slytherin rooms, Hermione resolved on what she would do. It hurt, but enough was enough. No one could expect her to marry someone who would treat her as something lower than a mistress, blame her for events that were not her fault, and then put her life in such grave danger—and express no contrition for any of it. _Well, no one in the magical community who is not a Malfoy or Malfoy ally,_ she thought cynically, before feeling bad about the thought. _Well… surely my parents would not insist that I wed someone who hurt me. But many Muggle nobles would. Lady Merope, though, is the one who gets to make the final decision, and she promised me that she would break the contract if I asked her to. I will offer to swear my wand to her service instead. She needs magical vassals. She may not want to accept that, because of the complication with Tom… but I suppose it is time I accept the fact that there may not be a complication with Tom. He was not here this morning when I was awakened._

She entered the Slytherin common room and immediately saw Tom himself seated in front of the hearth, gazing out at the cold unlit fireplace silently. He turned around as she entered the room, and his dark eyes widened. He rose from his seat and approached her.

Instantly, instinctively, Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at his heart. “Stay away from me,” she said, her words so cold that it surprised her.

He stopped abruptly and gazed at her. “Hermione, _please,_ let me explain.”

_“Explain?”_ she repeated. “I cannot imagine what ‘explanation’ you can have for _Petrifying me with Slytherin’s basilisk_ and then not even being present in the sickroom when I wake up, but I suppose you’ll say it anyway. Very well, then. ‘Explain’ yourself. It should be quite amusing,” she sneered.

His eyebrows narrowed. “Are you even going to give me a chance?”

“How dare you? I owe you _nothing._ Now is your ‘chance’ to speak, though, so get to it!”

He breathed deeply, trying to control himself and the storm of emotions that he felt. “I wanted to be in the sickroom, but _Dumbledore_ would not allow it,” he said. “He forbade me from being there.”

Her gaze softened ever so slightly at that. Encouraged, Tom continued. “As for the basilisk—I really didn’t mean for that to happen! I would _never_ set it on you, Hermione! It was an accident. Please believe me. I can’t even express how grateful I am that you weren’t killed.” He moved forward, reaching for her hands, but she recoiled. He stopped and gazed at her face, plain need written in his features. “I was awake for most of last night, Hermione. I could not get to sleep.”

“You could not get to sleep,” she repeated, her eyes hard and set. “What are you implying, Tom? That _you_ had it worse last night?”

“Well, didn’t I? I mean, you were unconscious.”

“Tom—”

He winced, realizing that that had not gone well at all. “My point is, I thought about what had happened, and it made me realize that I… well, I need you. I don’t want to be alone—without you. I regret that it took almost losing you for me to realize that. I’m sorry about the basilisk. It really was an accident, and after all, you were awakened quickly. It will never happen again. Will you forgive me?”

Hermione stared at him in disgusted amazement. “That’s it, Tom? You truly think that _that_ is all you need to say to me? That I will take you back after those pathetic words?”

He drew back as if she had slapped him. “I don’t understand, Hermione. I _am_ sorry about it! I never meant for this to happen….”

“Tom, let me ‘explain’ something to _you_ now. If you _had_ meant for it to happen, you would not be standing here. _You_ would be the one in the infirmary!” she roared, her voice suddenly hot with outrage.

He stared at her with pleading eyes. “Hermione, what should I say? What do you want from me? I don’t want to lose you. I realized that last night, after I almost did.”

“What do I _want_ from you? What I want,” she said, her voice suddenly breaking, “is something that you are clearly incapable of offering, Tom.”

“What do you mean?” A chill darted down his spine at her words.

“Have you even been listening to yourself? Everything that you have said to me has been about how bad _you_ have felt, how much _you_ think you couldn’t do without me, and how much of an accident this was—more excuses for yourself, and what does it _say_ that you think you need to tell me that? Do you think that I believed you did this on purpose, and that saying it was an accident will therefore make everything all right? Because it will not, Tom.”

He gaped. “I don’t understand.”

“You certainly don’t. You have said _not one word_ about any of the problems we had over the past two years—nothing about your atrocious treatment of me in my second year here, all supposedly to please your ‘allies’ whose families _already knew_ about the betrothal. You have also had not one word to say about the time you blamed me for Carrow’s torture of you. And now, you don’t seem to think you owe me any explanation or apology for the basilisk other than ‘it was an accident.’ You really seem to think that _you_ have suffered more last night, in your fear that you would ‘lose me,’ than I have suffered for the _past two years.”_ She stared at him with wide, sad eyes. “Tom, I cannot marry someone who disregards me, unjustly blames me for things, has no consideration for my feelings, and insists upon heedless pursuits that will endanger my life.”

Tom was gazing at her in growing horror. “What are you saying?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “We are going to your mother’s castle today. At some point, whenever the time is right, I am going to tell her that I want the contract broken after I complete my education here.”

His mouth dropped open in shock.

“I will swear my wand to her service,” Hermione said, the idea taking solid shape in her mind as she spoke the fateful words. “I have great respect for your mother. I want to help your family, and since she is with child, she needs more defenders.”

“You can’t,” he protested, reaching for her hands again. “Hermione, no, you _can’t—”_

She pulled away, avoiding facing him. It broke her heart all over again to see that look of shock and abject misery in his eyes, but she could not allow a consideration like that to persuade her. Tom had expressed contrition for what had happened, but that was it—it was for “what had happened,” not “what he had done to her,” either now or any time over the previous two years. His words had made it plain that he had not thought about her feelings whatsoever, but was instead focused on how much _he_ thought he would suffer. Worse, it had not even occurred to him that she would be offended and hurt by that reaction.

“Tom,” she finally said, “for two years, you have scorned and dismissed me because you took for granted that ‘I can’t’ do anything in response. It’s time you learned that, as a matter of fact, _I can.”_

With that, she turned on her heels and went to her bedchamber, leaving him in the common room with devastation inscribed on his face.

* * *

_What can I do?_ Tom thought as he paced back and forth in his Hogwarts bedroom. The shock of what had just happened had fully sunk in, and he was horrified and distraught. Mother would accept Hermione’s offer. There was no doubt in his mind of that. Mother liked Hermione, and if Hermione made her loyalty to Mother as clear as a sworn oath would imply, then she would take up the offer. He would then have to go about the grounds of Hangleton, perhaps even the castle of Parselhall, knowing that Hermione was there but had rejected him and moved on with her life. How could Hermione have felt as she claimed she did for so long without his knowing about it? He was a perceptive person, a Legilimens. How could this be?

_Well, Hermione is an Occlumens,_ he thought unhappily. _She has hidden her thoughts and feelings from me… and now she blames me for not seeing them? I don’t understand. She always chose her studies and her friendships… she wanted no part of my doings after our first fight and tried to dissuade me from my goals for some reason I could never understand… she disliked my friends because of politics, I thought, at least…. I remember how, after Mother formed alliances with my friends’ parents, it was perhaps time for me to talk to Hermione, since I no longer needed to keep my distance from her to impress those families. But then she involved herself in the Lestrange business, and I was tortured over the murder of that filth…._

As he dredged up the memories, the anger that he had felt at the time resurfaced once more. That was not productive; he realized that, but he could not figure out what to do. He did not really even know how to begin winning her back. They had been estranged for so long.

_Is it true?_ he thought miserably. _Is this the end? What can I do? I would say whatever it is that she wants to hear from me, but I don’t know what it is now. And if I said, “Of course you have suffered, and I am sorry for that,” she would consider it insincere, since she accused me of not saying those things a little while ago. And…_ Tom sighed deeply at this… _I suppose it would be insincere, because I don’t understand her feelings._

He had already packed, but as he brooded, his eye caught the gleam of an empty flask on a shelf. It was the one that had held the green potion from the sea cave.

_Slughorn said that the potion makes one feel remorse. It brings up memories of one’s worst moments,_ he thought. _I wonder…._

The idea flashed through his mind that if he drank the potion, he might get to take the artifact that hopefully lay at the bottom of the basin. His heart thumped oddly at that. He did not even know what it was. It _probably_ was not Excalibur… that basin did not look large enough to hold a sword… but whatever it was—if indeed an artifact existed—it was something that was significant to the Gaunt family.

_Perhaps I can drink the potion, see these events again and gain some new insight about them that will help me talk to Hermione, and also gain the object!_ Tom thought excitedly, springing to his feet. _The object could be a reward for doing that! Perhaps this is the answer. And Slughorn said that there was probably another potion nearby to restore one’s health and vigor. It could be the water. It could be. This is what I will do, then._

They were to Apparate to Parselhall that afternoon. Tom glanced at his pack. He could bring it with him, making it appear that he was already at Parselhall in case he did not return from the sea cave in time and Hermione asked Slughorn to look for him.

_She might not,_ he thought. _She might assume that I had gone on without her anyway._ That thought did not offer him any comfort, but he could not ignore it. Sighing, he picked up the pack and left the Slytherin rooms to walk to the Apparition point in the castle courtyard.

* * *

Having been to the site of the sea cave before made it possible for Tom to Apparate directly there—or, rather, almost directly there. He emerged from the unpleasant constriction to face the salt spray of the sea, which was a very different matter in late December than it had been in the middle of summer. To make matters worse, a storm was battering the coast with damp, frigid gusts of wind, so sodden with moisture that he could see them in the distance as fast-moving white clouds. Tom shivered immediately as the water soaked him through. The elements were certainly going to make him earn whatever was in the basin, he thought.

He pulled the hood of his dark green cloak over his head, tugged his pack across his shoulders, and turned away from the sea to face the back wall of the shallow antechamber. The storm had pushed the water about an inch deep along the floor of this outer cave, and the back wall was blasted with spray. However, Tom remembered where to go. Even amid the howling of the icy wind, the thrum of ancient blood magic called out to him, _thump-thump,_ as it had that summer. He walked to the spot and shivered as he cut his palm open to offer the ward passage. As he expected, the rock of the wall slid away, revealing the inner cave, bathed in a cold green glow. Tom breathed deeply and pressed forward into the dim light.

The fresh water inside the vast inner cave was unnaturally still, even though the storm outside had free rein to enter this chamber now. In fact… Tom realized that he himself could not feel the wind. _Magic,_ he realized. The air was full of it. He followed his magical sense to the spot where magical power seemed to converge, grasped at air that was suddenly thick and solid, and pulled on the shining silver rope that appeared in his hands. It was attached to a boat that slid out of the water with much greater ease than it should have. In the absence of magic, it should be impossible to pull a submerged boat by hand with only a rope, but with the charms that Tom could sense covered this boat and its rope, it was a relatively simple task. When the boat emerged fully from the water—again, barely making any ripples at all, Tom noted—it was already dry on the inside. He gathered up the long folds of his cloak and robes and sat down. There was a single oar, which he used alternately on each side to propel the boat toward the glowing island in the center of the lake. No ripples disturbed the surface of the unnatural, obviously enchanted fresh water.

_Why did I not notice this before?_ Tom thought about halfway to the lake. _Was I so focused on getting treasure out of the basin that I did not make note of anything else except for barriers that I had to overcome? This water is obviously highly magical._

In a bit, the boat bumped against the island, and Tom got out, making sure to tie it to a large rock on the bank. He scrambled to the pinnacle of the small island, where the glowing basin rested atop a short pillar, its light illuminating the vastness of the cave on all sides. Tom gazed at the green surface, almost glittering with potency.

_The worst moments of one’s life._ Tom’s stomach churned at the thought of what _that_ might be like. _It is so that I can understand,_ he told himself, taking a silver goblet out of his pack. _I need to know what the past two years were like to Hermione, since they were clearly much worse to her than they were to me. I did not just declare I would break the contract, after all. And… she is right… I assumed that she would not do it either._

Shivering in dread of what he expected to come, Tom dunked his goblet in the basin and drew out a cupful of the green potion. Closing his eyes tightly, his mouth already puckered into a wince, he downed it.

The effect was not immediate. For a few seconds, Tom gazed down at the basin, which was now a bit less full. Then the potion took effect.

A scene appeared in his mind from two years ago. He and Hermione were standing in the courtyard of Hogwarts, just returned from a holiday visit to Parselhall. Although he did not have access to her exact thoughts, the potion-induced memory did provide him with a sense of what she was feeling. At this moment, she was happy and content, her satisfaction tainted only slightly by a sense of darkness on the horizon. In the memory, he brought her hand to his lips, smiling back. The happiness in her face suddenly seemed to release a pent-up urge inside him, and he pulled her close, kissing her in full view of anyone else who might be present—which included his Lords of Beltane.

In the cave, Tom did not want to relive this, but the potion was in his system, and he had no choice now. He observed in horror as he scorned Hermione before his friends, alluding crudely to their intimacies—a private, special, almost sacred part of their lives—as though they were no more than a romp with a whore. The boys tittered, and Hermione stared at him in shame and betrayal. For the first time, Tom saw it as Hermione had seen it: A Muggle-born who had wanted so much to be part of the world to which she belonged by birth, who had been bound to him but found joy in that due to their early friendship, and then found that joy curdling into sadness, confusion, betrayal, and dread.

_Not her,_ Tom thought in the cave as the memory repeated itself almost endlessly. _She was so innocent then. I never realized how much she simply enjoyed her life, despite being under threat. At least she had my affections, and hope for a happy future…. What have I done?_

He finally came back to himself and gazed down at the basin. It seemed so full yet. Shuddering, he dipped the goblet into the bowl again and drank another full cup of the potion.

In his memories, Hermione was returning from the seventh-floor room where the Friends of the Founders met. She had just learned that Neville Longbottom’s parents were going to take the oath of fealty to Dumbledore, aligning Hogsmeade under the authority of Hogwarts. He had been outraged that she would go to the meetings, accusing her of “swanning about with other wizards” and “switching sides.”

_“Are they your people, Hermione?”_ he asked her in the memory, a nasty smirk overspreading his face. The question had been little more than an attempt to get at her; he had not meant to actually exclude her from wizarding England either as a Muggle-born or a part-Norman, but she had interpreted it to mean both. In the cave, Tom felt the cold knife of rejection himself. What had been a spiteful comment on his part, uttered because he was jealous of her persistent friendship with Potter and worried about political matters that were out of his control, had hurt her deeply. The wizard she was supposed to marry had essentially just told her that she did not belong.

Tom noticed as he pulled himself out of the memory that his eyes were damp. He was starting to feel physically weak as well. He grimaced and downed another goblet of the potion.

They were standing in one of the paths on the grounds of Hangleton, alone, the summer sun radiating down upon them. _“You really have joined these ‘Friends,’ haven’t you? You have sided against me—betraying me—”_

Hermione was angry now; Tom could tell that in the memory. His words no longer had the same degree of power to hurt her that they used to. She was already hardening to him. That realization was horrifying. Tom watched in the memory as they argued about how he treated her and how he professed to regard witches. At the end of the encounter, she had stormed off, leaving him alone. He had wanted to follow her—and, for the first time, Tom in the present realized that _she_ had wanted _him_ to follow her. She had wanted him to chase after her and express his contrition. She had hoped that her logical argument—if he really respected witches, he should treat _her_ better—would persuade him to do that. It had not, and another little bit of hope died inside her at that moment.

Tom stooped over the basin, wiping away the tear that now trickled down his face. He doubted that it would contaminate the potion if it fell in, but best not to let it happen anyway. He realized that he was clutching the rounded sides of the bowl for support, and his head felt light, as if he were soon going to faint.

_Not yet,_ he thought, drinking another gobletful. At least the basin was finally noticeably emptier, but that was the only good thing.

It was another Friends of the Founders meeting, this a meeting that he had agreed to attend. He had decided it was best to see if _he_ could guess what their families might be up to, as well as to stake his claim on Hermione in front of Potter, Longbottom, and the others.

_“I asked you this once, and I will ask you again now: Whose side are you on?”_

That still hurt. The implicit accusation of betrayal still hurt her, and now, it combined with anger and outrage over the fact that she was convinced that _he_ had betrayed _her_ by his treatment of her.

In the memory, they went upstairs together to the meeting, but it had ended rapidly in disaster when Tom learned that Hermione had signed a magically binding oath not to speak of their doings to Malfoy or his allies. He had stormed out of the meeting, refusing to take the oath himself even though he knew it was not one he ought to have an objection to—and leaving Hermione standing in the room before her friends and companions, utterly humiliated. Now, though, Tom himself felt every pang of humiliation, every stab of rage and shame as Weasley and his girl laughed at her.

_She believed, at that time, that she was bound to me with no choice in the matter, that I cared so little about her that I would humiliate her in public before social inferiors, and she suffered mockery and ridicule from people who knew that they did have freedom to choose their partners,_ he thought, staring at the green potion that remained. The horrifying magnitude of his mistreatment of Hermione was slowly becoming clear to him.

“What have I done?” he whimpered, his words barely audible, though there was no one else in the cave to hear him anyway. He did not want to drink any more of that potion, but the bowl still had plenty for him. Clinging to the sides, his knees bending, he swallowed another cupful—and immediately wished that he had not. This was the worst by far—at least as of yet.

Hermione had long known that horrible crimes such as rape occurred, but her encounter with the pregnant, morose, terrified Adelaide Lestrange was her first experience with a person who had suffered such a trauma. She had struggled with her misgivings about helping a foe, but in the end, her fundamental compassion and sense of justice had won the day, and she had made the potion for Adelaide that would prevent her from being at the mercy of the rapist and her villainous, also-rapist father. Tom had been so quick to chastise her for not swearing Adelaide to an oath of silence, or otherwise protecting herself, but he had ignored the fact that, despite the second-class status bestowed upon her by Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange himself, despite the ridicule she suffered at school, despite the mistreatment _by him—_ the one person who, more than any other, should love and cherish her—she was still a kind person who wanted to do the right thing and help those who were suffering. Perhaps he had had a point that she should have protected herself better, but he had placed no value on her basic compassionate instinct. Even if he himself did not share it, he should have valued it in her, as something that she did better than he did—a strength to counter what was a weakness in him. _And if we had been together,_ he thought miserably, _we would have discussed it and devised a way to keep Lestrange from a forced marriage to a rapist, see justice done to the criminal himself, and protect Hermione’s role in it._ It had not had to have happened the way it had.

“What have I done?” he repeated again—or perhaps he only thought it. He did not know, but it did not matter—and worse was still to come.

The second wave of the memory slammed him like a dragon. He had blamed Hermione’s letter to Bellatrix Lestrange for the fact that he had been tortured over the rapist’s murder. _I was angry and scared,_ he thought. _I could have died that day, and I knew it—and I took that fear out on her._

The horrible fight occurred once again in the memory, only now, he saw it from Hermione’s perspective when he spitefully revealed the bargain he had made with Mother about their betrothal contract. She had been angry, but it had hurt and shocked her deeply. For the first time, Hermione had questioned if he cared for her anymore.

When Tom came back to the present time in the cave, he realized that he was not standing upright anymore, but rather, was clinging to the pillar where the basin rested, his knees bent. He was not sure that he could rise again. The water, that cold and unnaturally still magical water, beckoned to him…. _It could restore strength,_ he thought—but only for a moment. He might regain his strength, but somehow he knew that if he drank from the lake now, before the basin was drained, he would be barred from ever trying again. The artifact therein would be sealed against him, and he would lose Hermione, even after the memories that he had already relived. He could not explain how or why, and he supposed that it was his magical instinct that told him this rather than any part of his logical brain, but somehow he knew that draining the basin was necessary for him to have a chance at changing Hermione’s mind. Shuddering and shivering, he reached in the dim light for the side of the basin, hoping that it was magically secured and he did not pull the thing onto himself. Clutching it, he hoisted himself up and gazed upon the remaining potion. He filled up his goblet yet again, noticing that after this one, there appeared to be only one cupful left. He could not scoop up every last drop, but the magic of the bowl would detect when he could not get any more. He drank the potion he had just gathered and braced himself.

This memory was not about Hermione. Instead, he was reliving the horrible argument he had had with his mother after he had killed his father. He experienced it from her viewpoint, and this was just as horrible—if not worse—as anything he had experienced from Hermione’s view.

_Hypocrite. Liar._ Every word was a stab to his mother’s heart, as she questioned and second-guessed her own choices in life. She _had_ told lies, but it had not been out of casual unconcern for the truth. It was because she had agonized over when she ought to reveal the awful truth to Tom—the truth that she had eloped with his father as a young woman, barely adult, no older than he himself was right now, in order to prevent her own brother from raping her on a hideous, unholy mockery of a “wedding night.”

_“Who was it? There must have been someone. There always is for noble spawn.”_ That question, tumbling viciously from his lips, had brought up memories of awful dread in her mind.

“Why did I say that?” he murmured—or thought—as he relived the memory of saying that to her. “I could tell that the question hurt her, and that was _why_ I asked it. She could have told me the truth in her own way.” Shame filled him at the thought of it.

She had set up the betrothal between him and Hermione because she had had such a bad experience with her first marriage. He had been correct about that, he realized. But she had genuinely believed that two young people barely out of childhood who had so much in common would be happier, and love would come naturally, if they went through their young adult years contractually committed to each other. She had meant well for him. Everything she had done had been well-intended, whether it was ultimately a good decision or not. Tom felt ill at the memory of accusing her of selfishness—especially after he had just acted very selfishly.

Tom’s legs had already collapsed and were unable to support his weight now. He was clinging to the basin for support as he scooped up the last of the potion that he could. He noted, vaguely, that there was indeed something in the basin, though he could not quite tell what it was. It was something elongated. Perhaps a wand? But no, wands were a recent magical innovation, he vaguely remembered. It was certainly not the Holy Grail. Perhaps Excalibur? Wasn’t a sword supposed to be longer than that, though? Tom's vision was fuzzy and growing dark, and his entire body ached. After this, he would fall to his knees and drink that water. He downed the last of the potion and tumbled to the ground, curling up on his side. Somehow, he knew what memory that this cup was going to invoke. That did not make it any easier.

Tom closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks dampen, as he relived the talk he had just had with Hermione.

_She does not think I set the basilisk on her deliberately, but she does not trust me to ever change—not so much to change my plans; she does not care so much about that, but to ever consider her well-being, her feelings, or even, now, her safety and life when I make my plans._ In some recess of his soul, he had already known this truth by now. The sweet, innocent Hermione he had met three and a half years ago was gone, and largely by his own deeds. All people lost some of their innocence as they grew up, but they retained their idealism about some things, usually. Hermione had lost her idealism about him, at long last. _Three and a half years ago, she looked forward to marrying me. Now, she thinks I will be her death if she stays with me._

He was not sure how long he remained curled up on that cold, rocky bank. It might not have been long at all, but the pain—both physical and mental—was so intense, and he felt so utterly, deathly tired, that time itself seemed to become impossible to track. _Please,_ he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, _let her never be hurt again. Not her. Me. Not her. Not them. Me._ That thought repeated in his mind until, at last, it faded to a vague buzz. Some of the physical pain seemed to lift.

_I am dying,_ he thought suddenly. In that moment, he remembered the water. It took every ounce of his remaining strength, but he was able to drag himself to the bank. He did not hesitate. Making sure that his nose remained above the surface, he plunged his face into the water.

It tasted vaguely unpleasant, not at all like the pure magically infused “water of life” that he had expected, but as he drank deeply, he felt his strength returning to him. The pangs of physical agony returned, but only briefly. Another swallow of the water, and they began to fade.

Tom crawled from the bank, still feeling tired, but no longer as though he were dying. Instead, he felt as though he had gained several years of wisdom. He stood up on the rocks, the water swirling around his feet, and clutched the now almost-empty basin for support.

There was indeed something at the bottom. He had not been in a potion-induced hallucination. Tom steadied himself and gazed down at a sheathed blade. Gingerly he lifted it out of the basin. The sheath itself was clearly ancient and valuable, being made of perfectly molded copper, chased with fantastic beasts and Celtic knots, studded here and there with green beryls. Tom’s pulse quickened as he drew out the short blade, silver-white and pristine. The edge was clearly sharp enough to cut even after… how long?

Tom soon had his answer as he examined it. It was not a sword. It was not properly a dagger. This blade, he realized, was an ancient athame, an artifact used by witches and wizards of old in potionmaking, in ritual magic, in blood spells. On the hilt, right below a sharp-eyed raven, were inscribed the words,

_MORGANA, DAUGHTER OF IGRAINE_

Tom gazed at it longingly. It was true, then, at least some of the legend about this cave. What power this artifact might hold….

But no, he realized. He knew what he had to do with it. In the end, it was not for him.


	38. An Intangible Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not plan this story to fit the calendar, but here's a happy belated Valentine's Day to all of you!
> 
> Regarding the end of this chapter and the level of detail in it, Hermione is 16 and Tom is 10 days short of 17.

Tom closed the door of the inner cave behind him and faced the storm, which had not abated a bit. Cold, stinging sea spray blasted his face. He pulled his cloak closer and shivered, but the solution was clear. Taking a deep breath, making sure he had the energy and magical reserves to avoid a lethal accident with the process, he Apparated to the grounds of Parselhall.

At once, the air was drier, though still cloudy, and the wind was considerably weaker. He shifted his pack on his shoulders. It held the priceless relic he had just acquired, as well as his other possessions that he was bringing with him for the winter holidays. He wanted so much to perform a ritual with it… but he had made up his mind. The urges to use it himself first—or _instead—_ were tempting, but he resisted them.

His mother was already waiting in the high seat, Snape beside her. Her face was grim as she greeted Tom. “My son,” she said formally. She met his eyes with hers, which were unusually stern. “We have much to discuss.”

Tom furtively examined her. There was no visible sign of her pregnancy… but then, he supposed, there wouldn’t be. It was too early. He glanced at her and nodded. “My congratulations, Mother,” he said.

“Yes, that is one matter that we will discuss,” she said. “But it is not the only one.”

Tom’s heart sank. Had Hermione told Mother her intentions already? She had said that she would merely do it “at some point” over the intermission.

“High Master Dumbledore sent me a letter this morning,” she said, her words hard. “Tom, when I let you read the family history books, you gave me your word that you would not use the information for destructive purposes.”

Tom realized what she was talking about now. “I was excited,” he said simply, no hint of petulance in his words. “I was excited and eager. I shouldn’t have opened the Chamber while people were there, but it was not my intention to attack anyone, least of all Hermione.”

Merope studied him for a second before deciding that he was telling the truth. She nodded. “I believe you,” she said, “but Hermione is extremely upset about this. If I were you, I would go to her soon. She informed me that you have barely discussed it with her so far.”

Tom’s heart thumped at that. Despite her obvious disapproval, that was promising. It meant that Hermione apparently had _not_ told Mother what she had told him. There was still time. “I mean to do that,” he said feelingly. “I don’t think I apologized to her properly, which is probably what she means and why she is upset.” He paused. “I hope to discuss a lot of things with her,” he mumbled.

“I hope you do too,” Merope said. The meaning of her words was clear from the tone; Tom realized that she knew quite a lot about their estrangement and disapproved of it. “In the meantime, welcome home.”

* * *

Tom brooded in his room for a little bit as he considered how to approach Hermione and what to say. He fingered the athame, not removing it from its sheath, merely gazing at it as though it could offer him advice. _Though perhaps I should not want advice from this particular ancestor,_ he thought wryly, recalling that according to the history of Arthur’s family that he believed, she had gone to her own half-brother with the belief that an incestuous marriage was a fine idea. He set the athame down on a table and considered further.

Hermione would be interested in hearing about his experience in the cave with the potion— _after_ she was amenable to him again. She would not want to know immediately about how much he had suffered from the potion. _This is about her,_ he thought. _I suffered that much because that is what she felt too._

The snake she had given him slithered up the arm of the chair where he sat and coiled on top of his desk, flicking its tongue at him occasionally as he thought. He smiled at the creature, mentally contrasting this snake—his true familiar—with the basilisk of Slytherin. He had only ever thought of the basilisk as a weapon in the coming fight against Malfoy and Lestrange, he realized. It had never replaced this snake in his mind as _his_ personal familiar. _And Hermione gave her to me,_ he thought again. That was a potent thought. The war that he expected, the fight for his people, his own ancestry—as important as those things were, they were still ultimately secondary to her in his mind, even if he had chosen to ignore that fact for two years.

 _It was always Hermione, the entire time. I never even wanted to dally with other girls. I never even considered it. Every night that I felt those urges, I fantasized that my hands were hers. I never stopped loving her; I just stopped accepting that fact myself or showing her._ Tom sighed. His task now was a monumental one: how to convince her of what he had so long denied to himself.

 _She will want to speak,_ he thought, reaching for the athame again. _She will have things to say. The alternative is that she is immovable on the subject. There is essentially no chance that she will have little to say because she is accepting everything I say uncritically. She will want to speak, and I should listen to what she has to say. That means…_ Tom sighed again. _That means that I cannot plan this out in exacting detail._

He picked up the knife and rose to his feet, quickly leaving the room.

* * *

Tom had a hunch that Hermione was in the library rather than her bedroom. He hoped it was the case; he doubted very much that she would welcome a visit from him in her personal quarters. He opened the great double doors to the library and eased inside, closing them behind him immediately. Since it was the day before the winter solstice, night had come early, and the black sky glittered with stars through the tall diamond-paned windows. He thought he glimpsed a light in a far corner. The candles in the library lit up by magic to track his path through the maze of bookshelves as he walked toward the glow.

Hermione was seated in the corner. A single candle flickered on the nearest table. She was not reading a book, but was instead staring out the window, having turned to face outward. As Tom approached, she heard his footsteps and turned her head, catching his eye. Her eyebrows narrowed and her lips thinned.

That was an inauspicious beginning, Tom thought, but he supposed it was to be expected. He gazed at her for a moment. “Hermione,” he finally said, “there is something I would like to give you.”

She instantly drew up into herself and glared at him with suspicion. “I suppose your real plan is that I will take back what I said this morning at Hogwarts due to this, and therefore that this ‘gift’ will really turn out to be a loan.”

Stung, Tom instantly protested. “No, Hermione, it truly is a gift.” He withdrew the athame from his robes and held it out to her in his palms.

She eyed it, surprise filling her face as she read the name of its original owner, but did not take it. “Where did you get this?” she said.

“There is another site where one of my family briefly… stayed,” he said, searching for the right word. “As you can guess, about six hundred years ago, my royal ancestor left her grandmother’s athame behind in this… place. I think she or her mother must have been a Seer and had a premonition to do so….” He trailed off. “I want it to be yours, Hermione. It’s a powerful artifact; I can tell that just by handling it….” He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping as he forced out the difficult words. “If you mean to serve my mother, it would be useful. But I want you to have it, whatever you do. It’s a gift.”

Hermione considered for another moment before gingerly touching the athame. She picked it up and unsheathed the blade. “It’s very sharp,” she observed, “and—yes—very powerful.” She stroked the hilt with a single finger. “There is no binding magic in this….”

Her implication hurt, but he supposed he could not much blame her for being wary. “I’ve done nothing to it. The magic in it was there from the beginning. I would not use an artifact to _entrap_ you, Hermione. I just… wanted you to know that I truly am sorry about everything.”

Hermione sheathed it and set it down on the table next to her candle. “I see.” She met his eyes with hers briefly. “Tom, I know what you want, even if you don’t say it.”

“I don’t deny that,” he agreed. “It’s true. But… it’s your decision, Hermione. I won’t even insist that we talk about it right now unless you want to.”

“I don’t want to talk about it if you are just going to say what you said at Hogwarts. I need more than that, Tom. I warned you against this repeatedly… I know that circumstances have changed, but you pursued this—you went looking for this monster—knowing that people were there. Your obsessions almost _cost me my life,_ and while I know it was an accident, it was the culmination of two years of disregarding me. It started with my feelings, then my ideas, and finally, my very safety.” She gazed hard into his eyes. “If you think it was _easy_ for me to say what I said this morning, you are mistaken. If it had been easy, then frankly, I would have said it a long time ago.” Tom flinched at that, but she continued. “I care about you, Tom, which is why it was hard, and part of the reason why I decided upon something that would keep me near your family. But caring about you is not enough, and I need to know if you are doing this—giving me this—for more of a reason than that you are afraid you’re going to lose something that you want. I need to know if I am more than just another _thing_ that you want to own.”

Tom was appalled at that representation of it, but he knew better than to scold her for saying it. If she said it in such a calm, level voice, she had a reason to fear it. “You are,” he said simply. “I know I haven’t treated you as much more than that—if even that—for a long time, but you are. I took you for granted. You were right about that: I put you last because I assumed that there was nothing you could do about it, _however_ I treated you. That no matter what I did, you would always be there, and I could just return to the way things used to be later.” He flicked his wand, summoning a chair from a couple of yards away, and sat down once it was there. “It wasn’t malicious, intentional cruelty… most of the time,” he added, feeling a pang of shame at the realization that there were some occasions, especially later, when it was. “That first time in the Hogwarts courtyard… and the moments leading up to it, when I treated you with contempt in front of my friends… I thought I needed to impress them. It was not my _aim_ to hurt you.”

“But you did, and you did not seem to care.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “I told myself that you would understand why I did it and ignore it because it was just an act.” He gazed at her. “Because they also hated the Norman wizards’ rule, I thought they would view it as a weakness if I let them see how much I truly cared for you, but it’s not a weakness to show affection for one’s family—or family-to-be—in front of other nobles. In fact, it’s a strength. Family ties are everything to the nobility, to magical ones especially. I should have treated you as the lady you are, but….” Tom glanced down at his lap, shaking his head. “What can I say? I still thought I needed to act in a certain way to ‘earn’ their respect as an equal, but I shouldn’t have acted _that_ way—treating _you_ as less than an equal. Even if I had been correct that their support was tied to it, I shouldn’t have done it. I meant to stop after I had their alliances, but that just means I was taking you for granted and expecting you to tolerate something that you should never have had to.”

Hermione considered what he had said as he lapsed into silence. “I’m glad that you finally understand that,” she said pointedly. “What _about_ those alliances, then? I confronted you about that, you know, after your mother established formal sworn alliances with their families. You’ve had those alliances for quite a while now. We have still been estranged.”

He winced at that memory. “That was the time that the business with Adelaide Lestrange occurred,” he said. “I actually intended, the very day that I was tortured, to talk about it then… but Carrow had other ideas. And,” he added quickly, “you were right. I blamed you for what happened. I was frightened that day… I knew that I could have been killed, that Malfoy and Lestrange truly were _that_ lawless, and I was thinking about certain magical rituals that I had known of but never truly considered before…. It was overwhelming. But none of that means I should have blamed _you_ for it. If anything, it was largely my own fault that we hadn’t conspired together about what to do, and there was the strong possibility that even if we had, anything we did that resulted in the rapist’s death would have meant I got tortured anyway. Malfoy and Lestrange are our _enemies,_ after all.” His voice cracked. “There were times when I think I forgot who the enemy really was.”

“You were certainly eager to show me how little you trusted me,” Hermione said tartly. She had been listening to his words, and although they were explanations, somehow they did not feel like _justifications_ to her. He knew that his actions were unjustified. Somehow, something had occurred to him over the course of the day to which he had been completely oblivious in the morning. She wondered what he had been doing all day between the time she Disapparated from Hogwarts and the time that he appeared here. “You were constantly asking me if I was on ‘your side’ because I kept apprised of what Harry’s friends were talking about.”

“I still think their families are up to something,” he said, “especially the Weasleys. But that doesn’t mean that their children are part of it. I don’t think Potter is, or Lovegood, or probably even Longbottom.”

“They’re not,” Hermione said. “Of course their families are up to something. Do you imagine you are the only person to deduce that? They know it too, and every time they see their families, they attempt to find out anything they can about their parents’ secret correspondence. Harry knows that his parents are involved in some kind of scheme… or his father is, anyway,” she said bitterly. “He’s tried to discover what it is. _That_ is why I have been going to their meetings, Tom—that and the fact that we’ve also been practicing magic.”

“You have?”

“Yes, we have. Part of the reason I advanced to your level this year is my own studying, but we have practiced dueling and other magic in these meetings. It has helped quite a bit.”

He smiled. “That’s great! I’m glad for you.”

“I wanted to know what they were doing too, and whether their activities—if we could ever discover them—would make them useful allies for this family or something that your mother should be wary of. I have _never_ been your enemy.”

“I know,” he said penitently. “I realize that now.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That argument about Lestrange was a time when I was purposely cruel to you—the end of it, when I told you about my bargain with my mother. I have nothing to say about that bit except that I am sorry. I’m sorry for giving you reason to worry that I didn’t care about you. I’m sorry for making you feel such misery at the prospect of being married to someone who didn’t care about your feelings—and that this was the _best_ outcome, as you reckoned it then.” He met her eyes with his. “I _hate_ what Malfoy and Lestrange have done against witches, Hermione. I hate it. For all their fine airs about being pureblood wizards, their views of witches are based entirely on Muggle opinions of women, specifically Norman—”

“And Saxon,” Hermione said sharply.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Muggle women have not had it very good in this country for several centuries, and now, Malfoy and Lestrange are trying to do the same thing to witches. I want to rip this _weed_ out of magical culture by the roots before it can take hold… but what I’m trying to say is that I have not really considered the fact that I have been making _your_ situation even worse. I’ve wanted to help ‘witches’ but haven’t noticed how you were forced to see a betrothal that was making you miserable as the _best_ outcome for yourself, because of laws that harm witches. Again, I’m sorry.” Taken by a sudden urge, Tom leaned forward and reached for her hands. “Hermione, will you give me another chance? If you do, I swear to you, I will make sure that it _really is_ the best future you can have.” He swallowed. “I remember what it was like that first year and a half.”

“It can never be like that again, Tom, and you know that. We were fourteen years old and….” Her voice wavered. “So much has happened since then—so many dark things. We’re not innocent anymore.”

“No, we aren’t,” he agreed. “But it’s inevitable that people lose some of their innocence and idealism as they grow up. I regret that I wasn’t there for you when you went through it, and I regret even more that I was the cause of some of it.” He took a deep breath and released her hands. “If you still want to take an oath to my mother, I understand. The ritual blade of her ancestor will help you if you do that. But you deserve more. You deserve to be loved.” He gazed at her, a wry smile forming on his face for the first time that evening. “I will, you know. I won’t stop. It’s up to you whether to accept me, though.”

Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before facing him once more. “I need time to think about it. The basilisk attacked me _yesterday,_ Tom. It’s obvious to me that you have thought deeply about all of this… and this knife,” she said, “I don’t know where you got it, but I would guess that this has some connection.”

“It does,” he said. “I’ll tell you about that if you want. It was a… profound experience.”

She considered, then shook her head. “Another time, Tom. If it was profound, it… well, it might be too much right now. I need to think about everything.” She handed him the athame.

“Keep it,” he said immediately, drawing away. “It’s _yours,_ Hermione. I meant that.”

Hesitantly she took it back, unsheathing the blade once more to study the intricate designs of both the athame and its sheath. “It is beautiful,” she finally said, “and powerful. You say that her granddaughter placed this—wherever you found it?”

He nodded. “The Princess Ceridwyn—dispossessed, of course, but the Gaunts still recognized her title in our family histories. It’s a cave on the western coast, a _very_ magical site where she stayed for a while after Camlann to escape Arthur’s loyalists who blamed her father for what happened. It seems fitting to me that a witch should own this blade.” He rose from his chair and gave her a feeble smile. “You said you need to think it over. I’ll leave you to that. Good night, Hermione.”

She glanced after him as he left the library, sighing deeply once he was gone. She had been so sure that she knew what she had to do, but now, she was not certain anymore. _I should go to bed too,_ she thought, rising from her seat. _It’ll be easier to think in my bedchamber, where I know I won’t be interrupted._

She took the blade.

* * *

Crookshanks curled against Hermione’s side as she lay in bed, the athame resting on the shelf inside the heavy headboard. The heavy draperies that hung from the bed in winter kept out the magical torchlight from the ramparts and gates of the castle that shined through her window, so she had her wand lit dimly as she thought about what had happened.

Tom had seemed sincere. Much of what he had to say had been explanatory of himself, and it had hurt on some level to have those memories dredged up again, but he had never used his explanations to excuse or validate his actions. Every time he had mentioned something, he had been clear that he knew now how much it hurt her when he had done it and that it was both wrong and unnecessary. _Of course it was unnecessary,_ she thought. _I was not always able to articulate why, but I knew he did not “have” to treat me the way he did. If, for whatever reason, he had, I would have been able to see that myself. I was raised noble. I understand about political considerations. If he really “had to” treat me the way he did in order to impress allies that he also “had to” have, then I would have recognized it myself and would have waited before showing him so much affection in the first place._ Just thinking about it angered her again. _He understands now,_ she thought, calming down. _He knows it was wrong. He really did seem penitent throughout that entire discussion._

 _And the discussion itself was civil,_ she thought suddenly. _That’s the first time in quite a while that that’s happened. He never even came close to losing his temper with me. He truly did sound respectful in that talk. I wonder what happened to him?_ She reached for the athame, regarding the artifact with awe. _A sea cave full of magic. I wonder if it was the same place he went last summer. It must have been. And he gave me this, despite the fact that he would have coveted it himself last summer, if my guess is right. It’s almost as though his act of giving me this knife is… giving up on his dream of wearing a crown. But surely not? He’s had that dream for so long…._

_Though, perhaps he also realizes at last how hard it would be to make that happen. Malfoy and Lestrange must be removed from power, but it does not follow that a wizard must sit on the English throne. Perhaps he realizes that too._

She thought about his parting words. _“You deserve to be loved,”_ he had said. He _did_ love her, according to his own words, and would continue to do so. Hermione thought about the happy times she had experienced with him two years ago. She had looked forward to marrying him. In fact, she remembered, they had even assured each other that they _were_ married in their own eyes and according to ancient magical custom. Their affections and confidence had been a joy to her at Hogwarts in a time when she was otherwise being threatened, diminished by those in power, ridiculed by many of her own classmates. It had all been bearable because she could escape to their little room in the castle and have no secrets between each other. It had not mattered as much that adversaries told her that she did not belong among other witches and wizards. She knew it was inherently untrue, of course, but it was easier for her if she did not have to comfort herself solely with her own mental assurances of that. A thinker like Hermione would always question her own convictions from time to time without outside support—and she had it then. She had a specific place, wizarding family, and future partner with whom she knew she belonged. Afterward, her friendships with Harry, Luna, and the others had filled the void somewhat, but she realized that she had never—not once—been as happy as she had been in that first year and a half.

 _Have I even been happy at all?_ she thought. _I suppose there have been times when I was, but since then, it’s mostly been drudgery, apprehension, fear, sadness—and resignation. I want to be happy again. If there is a war coming, and it does seem that there must be one, I want more than just resignation, duty, and friendship. If he does love and respect me—if he really does see what he did wrong and has resolved to change—then we can have that again. It will not be what we had two years ago, but_ —Hermione realized something with a start— _it never would have been. We always would have grown up and changed. The actions of Malfoy and Lestrange, the evil of their allies and vassals, always would have darkened us._

_If he means what he said tonight…._

A thought occurred to her, one that satisfied her as soon as her mind formed it. _This is still very sudden. He opened the Chamber yesterday. He must have had an interesting experience today in that cave, but I will see if this lasts for more than a few hours. I will wait a bit before deciding what to do. I will see how he acts tomorrow, and then I will decide._

* * *

The next day was the winter solstice. Hermione emerged from her bedchamber to find the castle decorated for Yule, with mistletoe and evergreen branches decorating the arches, ledges, and furniture. It brought a smile to her face.

At breakfast, Tom sat next to her and ate his food very properly, without the faintest allusion to their conversation the night before. Evidently he was sincere about leaving the decision in her hands, as difficult as that must be for him. Across the table, Lady Merope and Lord Severus ate quietly. Hermione observed the subtle affections between them as he murmured a morning compliment to her under his breath and she gave him a warm smile. She was glad of it. They both deserved the happiness that they had. She hoped very much that the twins would be born healthy. They deserved that too….

 _Could I have that someday with Tom?_ Hermione thought. _If he meant what he said, I could._ Her heart thrilled at the possibility, which she had all but given up over the past year as she resigned herself to the prospect of a loveless marriage of convenience and a husband who regarded her with disdainful coldness—and then cast _that_ notion aside with one horrible event. The idea she had formed as a child, before she even knew that she was a witch, the idea that she had developed from watching her parents and then had sadly dismissed as naïve and foolish for a noble girl, was suddenly tugging at her soul once again. She wanted it to be true. She wanted Tom to be sincere, more than she had even wanted the betrothal itself at the beginning. That, after all, was before she had really known him. She did know now how he could be at his best. She wanted to believe.

Convinced as Hermione was that Tom had opened the Chamber in a furor over the news of his mother’s pregnancy, she was curious how he would react now. She studied him as they ate their meal together. He was still pretty chilly with Snape, but then, they had never gotten along particularly well. There was no reason that would change immediately. There was nothing in his affect that was disrespectful, though, and no resentment at all toward his mother.

 _If we can remove Malfoy and Lestrange, and undo their awful laws, then he won’t lose his inheritance,_ Hermione thought. _He must realize that the present situation is not his mother’s fault, or Lord Severus’s, or especially the twins’. It’s Armand Malfoy’s fault, and why should Lady Merope and Lord Severus sacrifice this form of happiness for the sake of any awful policy of Malfoy’s?_

Late that morning, Tom approached Hermione in the corridor with a heavy book in hand.

“What’s this?” she asked as he handed it to her. The title was _The Dispossessed Children of the Wizard-King,_ and the writer was Lord Hywel Gant. She recognized that it must be a family history, and that this wizard was almost certainly one of his ancestors who just spelled the name differently, but she wondered what he wanted her to read in it.

“It tells about the legend of the cave that held the Athame of Morgana,” he said. “My own experience in it was… well, as I said, I will tell you about that if you want to know, but the _nature_ of the magic in it was something of a surprise to me even after I read that book.” He smiled mirthlessly. “This is some background about it, though.”

Hermione took the book to a parlor, pleased with the interaction. It recalled the times when they had eagerly shared interesting magical knowledge with each other, pleased with what they had just learned and wanting the other person to know about it too. _It’s been so long…_ Hermione thought as she sat down and located the appropriate section in the index.

As Tom had said last night, the book told of how the daughter of Mordred, apprentice of Morgana le Fay, had fled to a sea cave to hide from her Muggle grandfather’s supporters, allegedly staying in that area and surviving on fish and gathered food until it was safe for her to leave. Curiously, one version of the legend that Lord Hywel related claimed that she had left on the back of a Welsh dragon, which stayed with her throughout the rest of her life, and that was why none of the Muggles dared attack her even after she had returned to society and married a wizard nobleman. That seemed unlikely to Hermione; Tom had never been able to communicate with dragons, and his Parseltongue had come from Salazar Slytherin, not the Gaunt line. Perhaps it was possible, though, for someone to earn the trust of a _young_ dragon and retain that even after the dragon was grown and perfectly able to kill its master. Some part of the legend surrounding the clandestine princess was true; she _had_ placed her grandmother’s athame in the cave for some reason. Based on the location of the sea cave, there could certainly be Welsh dragons in the area. However, Hermione could understand why Tom had not focused on this part of the story.

She then came to the part of the legend that told of how the finder of the artifact would restore the old line and become the ruler of English wizards. Suddenly it became crystal clear to Hermione why Tom had sought out this artifact—and the meaning of his gift was exactly as she had thought the night before. The athame really did symbolize his dream of ruling, and by giving it to _her…._

Doubts intruded. _Did he give me this book so that I would read that passage and think exactly that?_ she thought. _Could he want me to think this, so I would return to him and then he would have everything he wants, including me?_ A dark cloud suddenly covered all the pleasant thoughts that she had had that morning and the night before.

 _He meant the things he said,_ she thought. _Whatever ambitions he may have, he wants to share them with me. He does not want to own me; he does feel remorse for how he treated me. And if he really does respect me, he will listen to me when I tell him that this particular ambition is unrealistic. Besides, he can be lord of English wizards and witches without being the king, so a literal reading of the prophecy—if there was a prophecy—does not preclude that._

She reached the end of the chapter and turned to the next, but this chapter had nothing further to say of the matter. Hermione closed the book and leaned back in her chair, thinking.

* * *

That evening, Merope held a private Yule celebration for only the family. With Malfoy’s decree that observing the Celtic holidays was an act of high treason and therefore punishable by a horrible death, she no longer included the Muggle villagers in these events. Even Peter Pettigrew was not invited. Hermione did not disapprove of that; based on Harry’s report of Pettigrew’s interference in his family, she strongly distrusted the man’s intentions.

“Tonight,” Merope intoned, holding the ancient family staff high, “we solemnly observe the passing of time and change of the seasons. This is the darkest day of the year,” she said, her gaze settling upon Hermione, Tom, and Lord Severus in turn, “but so it has been and must always be. Darkness is not to be feared or loathed. It is simply a moment in the repeating cycle. And as we gather together tonight, let us remember that without knowing darkness, we also cannot know light; without cold, we cannot comprehend what it is to be warm.” She took a step forward with a powerful stride and set the Yule log aflame.

 _Without cold, we cannot comprehend what it is to be warm,_ Hermione thought. Their love had been sweet and innocent, but even if they had never had their fights, it would have had to change. A long-lasting frost had nipped their springtime affections, but in some ways that might have made it easier for them to appreciate what they could have now. The comparison for the love that they could now have would be the bitter chill of estrangement rather than those warm youthful affections. There were so many sad ballads about the lost spring of innocent young love, but they seemed to have been written by people who had never known true pain. Indeed, the coming of age itself was the worst pain they seemed to have known—and that seemed laughable to Hermione now. Lord Severus and Lady Merope had experienced “cold” and “darkness,” and their love was certainly not one of springtime. Adversity and rejection had given them a deeper understanding and appreciation of their mature love. Although she knew that she and Tom were still very young indeed, she realized that their estrangement—though regrettable and avoidable—could still have some good effects. There was no need to feel that the more mature love she could have with him was inferior to what they had had before.

She stole a quick glance at Tom, who seemed lost in thought. He was thinking of his mother’s words too, she realized. She was not a Legilimens, but she somehow knew it beyond a doubt.

 _I know what I am going to do,_ she thought as the log blazed away, bathing her in its light and warmth.

* * *

She followed Tom after the observance. He seemed at first to be heading for his bedchamber, but when he saw that she was pattering after him, he changed course and went to the library. Hermione appreciated that; although he must have a suspicion, he did not _know_ what she was going to say, and the implications of the bedroom would weigh heavily on their conversation. He held the library door open for her as she entered and closed it as soon as they were both inside. She took a seat in the same corner that they had had their discussion the night before, her gaze never leaving him as he followed.

“I have made a decision,” she began. “I thought all day about what you said last night, and… I believe you.”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“I believe that your remorse is real,” she continued. “I don’t know what you experienced in that cave, but it must have had a profound effect.” She met his eyes with hers and gave him a tentative smile. “I hope you will tell me about it. But I wanted you to know, I believe you, I never stopped loving you either, and I am willing to give you my trust once again.” She extended her hand to him.

He reached a hand across the small table that lay between their chairs and took her hand. She caressed his hand, feeling its warmth and pleasant dryness.

“You want to keep our engagement, then?” he said quietly.

She nodded. “I did not declare otherwise because it was what I truly desired. I just did not think that what I desired was possible anymore. You convinced me otherwise.” She smiled at him again as he brought her hand to his lips wordlessly, almost as if in benediction.

“I will never forget this,” he vowed, rising from his chair, never releasing her hand. She allowed him to pull her from hers as well. _“You_ will come first for me, always. Even ahead of my mother, as much as I care for her,” he said. “I grant it will be close—” He was smirking in spite of the solemnity of the occasion.

Hermione laughed. “That is as it should be. I’m sure she would agree—and she has Severus now, after all. I understand what you mean when you say that.” She closed the distance between them, pressing herself against his body and wrapping her arms around his back. He had grown taller, and he was just able to tilt his head and rest his cheek against her temple.

“We’re stronger together,” he whispered, hugging her tightly. “I will always consult with you before I do something… and I’ll listen to you. I will never again dirty and degrade our affections, either. And I will _insist_ that my— _our_ —family’s allies treat you with the respect you deserve. I should have from the very beginning. I have _chosen_ you to stand next to me and they will respect you as an honored member of this family and a witch.”

“In the end, we chose each other,” she murmured.

“We did.”

She raised her head, remaining in his embrace, and gazed upon his lips longingly for a moment. In the next, she lunged for him, her hands flying from his lower back to the back of his head. He met her halfway, and their lips pressed together in desperate need. The last time they had kissed, it had been in the midst of that ghastly argument. It had been two years since they had shared a truly affectionate, loving kiss like this one.

He pulled away from the kiss, gazed at her with a deep and intense look, and squeezed her tightly, eliciting a gasp of delight from her. A goofy smile adorning her face, she moved in for a second kiss, this one with their lips open.

It was so lovely to have his affections once more, she thought. Yes, she knew she could have continued the physical part of their relationship, but it would have curdled and turned sour very quickly. She wished they had not been separated for so long, but since they had, she did not regret _that_ decision. Now, there would be no poisonous memories of intimacies that she had not truly wanted, no obligatory, unwanted kisses tasting of bile—not even the one during the fight. Every moment, every memory of this sort would be of genuine affection and desire.

“Stay with me tonight,” she murmured into his ear.

He pulled away and regarded her with a startled look on his face. “You mean that, Hermione? And—all that it implies?”

“I do. We’ve missed so much time already,” she said, pressing close against him. “I want to at least try to make it up. Some of it.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

“But my mother… and Snape lives in the castle now. You know he prowls the corridors.”

“I doubt he does anymore, now that he has a wife who is with child.” Hermione studied his face as she spoke the words; he did not flinch or wince. Encouraged, she continued. “As for your mother… she knew, Tom. She talked to me once about _the potion._ It was in the context of early marriage, but I know what she was really asking. She knew.”

Tom reluctantly agreed. “After my… confrontation… with my Muggle father last summer, we had a dispute. She told me then… not explicitly; I forget her exact words, but she heavily implied that she knew. Still, though….”

“If she meant to put a stop to it, she could have. I don’t think she minds, honestly. And she knows of our troubles too. I think she would be happy, in a way.”

“You have not been taking the potion anymore, have you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve had no reason to… but it’s unlikely that anything will happen. It’s… the wrong time. And I can make it tomorrow, just to be sure. Besides, we’re getting married in six months. Please,” she urged, embracing him. “It’s not even ‘desire’ so much—well, it _is,”_ she blushed, “but more than that, I just want to be close to you again.”

Tom was not truly able to resist in the first place, but after that, his mind was made up. He held her for another moment before releasing her, taking her arm, and walking with her out of the library. They moved down the corridor and into the wing where the family’s private quarters were, ascending the steps and entering the hallway.

Tom stopped outside his bedchamber, opened the door a crack, and hissed in Parseltongue. For a brief moment, Hermione had a flashback of the open door through which she had seen those _eyes,_ filtered through cloth—but then a small, harmless brown grass snake that she was very familiar with indeed slithered through the door. Smirking, Tom stooped to pick it up. Hermione stifled a laugh. She supposed she could not fault him for wanting to have his familiar with him through the night. After all—she remembered with a swoop of affection— _she_ had been the one to give this snake to him.

Hermione’s heart began to thump as Tom passed his own bedchamber and walked with her towards hers, their arms still linked together. She opened the door, ushered him inside quickly, and closed it behind her. He held his arm over a table, and the snake uncoiled itself from his wrist and curled into a spiral on the tabletop, resting its head and returning to its cold-weather snooze. Crookshanks was seated on her chair. He eyed the snake with a complete lack of interest. Even though it was small enough to be prey for such a large cat, the intelligent creature knew that this was the familiar of his person’s mate and was not to be harmed. He also recognized the fact that his person was on good terms with the male again and that the services of his claws and teeth would not be needed now. He yawned pointedly and closed his eyes, curling up to sleep once again.

Hermione pulled Tom gently toward her bed, drawing back the drapes to allow them both room to collapse on the mattress together. They did not waste any time. In the very next second, she had tossed off her outer robe and was at work on his. He pulled her close for another kiss while she detached the clasps.

In short order, they were both garbed only in underclothes. He gazed at her eager, desirous face briefly before making a decision. In the next moment, he pushed her down upon her pillow and lifted the trailing skirt of her chemise.

“Tom?” she questioned as he positioned himself between her legs. “What are you— _oh!”_

Tom did not know what prompted him to do it. He had always been very reticent about intimacy around his male friends. Even though he had been disrespectful of his private times with Hermione, he had not wanted to discuss the subject in explicit detail with the boys. There was a line that was too far for him even at that time. He had certainly never read anything about… specific methods or approaches… in any books. He was not even sure if such books existed. In every manuscript he had read that mentioned the subject, it was spoken of either in very flowery, poetic, metaphorical terms, or—in the case of the older texts—in words that struck him as outright crudity with no detail provided, least of all about a woman’s pleasure. Whatever it was that was driving him, it was born of a deeply instinctual, primal urge.

He plunged two of his fingers into her, eliciting a cry and a moan from her. “Do more of that,” she urged.

He was eager to oblige. With a wicked smirk adorning his face, he planted a kiss on her pelvis between her hips, then another one a bit farther down—and down—and down. As she moaned, he trailed kisses down her body until his lips were next to his fingers. Temporarily ignoring his own burgeoning desire for her, he began to slide those back and forth, noting with delight how she stretched and gasped at every motion of his hand.

He plunged a third finger inside her, noting with pleasure how easy it was—the utter lack of resistance from her—and how this was entirely because of _him,_ their intimacies from before, and her undiminished desire for him tonight.

“Your mouth,” she begged, “please, Tom.”

He placed a kiss upon her heated mound and suddenly had the thought of teasing her with his tongue. It was not something he had heard about from anyone, but it seemed eminently natural right now, precisely the thing to do. He plunged ahead, dipping his tongue into her heat, lapping her up as she stretched and gasped, her hands reaching for his hair as he moved his fingers increasingly rapidly—

He felt her clench hard around his fingers just as she let out a cry of satisfied desire. In the next moment, she was trembling and shaking, so very close to him. He gripped her legs and placed kisses on the smooth patch of bare skin just above the damp triangle of curls, stroking her thighs and hips all the while as she unwound.

Finally, her breathing returned to something approximating normal—but he was hungry. The aching desire between his legs needed satisfaction too. He did not want her to fall asleep, as she often had—as both of them often had—after their climaxes _before._ He could not explain just how he knew, unless it was some sort of magic, but he somehow knew that even though she had just reached satisfaction, she could still do it again. Acting on that instinct, he lifted himself up and propped his body above hers, gazing down at her face with unsatisfied longing.

She gazed back at him. “More?” she murmured. She wrapped her arms around his upper chest, closing her eyes in bliss as he positioned his tip at her entrance. “Yes. Please—”

He could not wait any longer. He pushed forward, entering her easily and quickly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and threaded her fingers into his hair as he began to move. He filled her to the hilt, provoking a cry from her at the sensation that she had missed—that they had both missed—for so long.

Although she had just had one climax, she quickly began to gasp and pant as his motions quickened, her desire peaking again from the ease of this so soon after the first time and the sheer blessed relief of finally, _finally_ having him once again and the deep joy of knowing that they were reconciled at last. He picked up his pace as her breaths grew rapid. This was what he wanted, every night, for the rest of his life, he thought. He knew it would not actually happen that way, even after their wedding this coming summer, but he did not allow that thought to intrude at this moment. They were together again, in mind and heart as well as body.

With that thought, he suddenly went over the edge. He let out a gasp and clutched her waist tightly as he had his release. She clenched around him at the sensation, having her own for the second time that night. Her slender fingers gripped his hair tightly, balling around the black locks, as she cried out.

Finally, after what felt like forever and yet somehow far too short a time, they collapsed onto the mattress together. He slid off her and curled up next to her, kissing her tenderly on the side of her face. “Good night, love,” he murmured.

She wrapped her arms around his bare body. “Good night,” she whispered.

He hugged her in return, allowing his arms to rest gently on her. Her skin was smooth and warm. Her eyes fluttered closed as she curled closely against him, a smile forming on her face.

Tom regarded her dark head with overwhelming affection as he held her. _Good night,_ he thought, _and may your dreams be as good as this night was. I may not be able to keep you from ever hurting again, but I will do everything I can to make up for the past two years._ He placed a soft kiss on top of her head. _This, I swear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These recent chapters have been focused on Tom and Hermione. Now that their problems are resolved, I'll return to the ongoing plots beginning with the next chapter—first the rest of the family, then a look at what's happening with their antagonists.


	39. Round Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you so much! I have not yet gotten around to answering everyone's reviews about the previous chapter, but I promise I will do so very soon. I'm so happy that the reconciliation played well with everyone who commented. And in the event that it did not quite succeed for anyone personally, I hope that this chapter will make plain that Tom has had both a profound and a _realistic_ change. He thinks about considerations (Hermione's, his mother's) that he formerly did not, but it's still very much a work in progress for him. I don't want the potion to be a "deus ex machina," just a catalyst for him to make lasting changes himself.

Tom awakened the next morning to the awareness of Hermione’s warm body snuggled next to him. It brought an immediate smile to his face. _Two years,_ he thought with a pang of regret mixed in with the happiness. _It has been two years since we woke up like this._ Unlike those times, Tom found that he did not feel any urgency to separate in the morning light. If his mother found them like this, then so be it.

He nudged Hermione awake, watching as she stretched, cat-like. She was clothed only in the loose chemise she had worn under her robes, which was bunched around her waist. She observed the darting of his gaze downward as she threw the covers back and pulled the chemise down to cover herself, smiling wryly at him.

“Not now?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Tonight. We have all the time in the world now.”

“That’s true.”

He got out of her bed and picked up the robes that lay on the floor. Mother had mentioned an important discussion the day before yesterday, presumably about the path forward against Malfoy and Lestrange. She would be pleased to know that they were reconciled. Tom had a suspicion that the discussion would occur today, possibly even at breakfast. He left Hermione’s bedchamber and walked the short distance down the hall to his own.

After he was dressed, he met her again at the top of the stone staircase, where she was waiting for him. She gazed at him, smiling, and embraced him around the neck as he bent down to kiss her.

They separated and linked arms as they descended the stairs, walking very close together. Tom pushed open the doors to the family dining room, where his mother and Snape were already seated. She gazed at him and Hermione, taking in their physical proximity and body language. A smile of approval appeared on her face, and she nodded subtly at Tom as he sat down with Hermione.

The elves brought the family breakfast, and they began to eat. Merope apparently had decided to wait until the end of the meal before speaking—if she did mean to start the discussion now.

A sudden touch on his thigh made him jump. He shot a glare at Hermione, but it lacked any actual anger. She smirked back at him as her fingers drummed over his leg. He huffed under his breath and attempted to ignore her teasing, though it was difficult. Was this some sort of continued punishment, first refusing him in the morning and then this? _I will return the favor tonight,_ he vowed to himself.

The pressure on his leg lifted at the end of the meal when Merope cleared her throat to gain their attention.

“As you are all fully aware, we have much to discuss as a family,” she began. “A number of things have changed recently and I think it is important for us to come together and share our knowledge and ideas freely.” Her gaze darted to Tom and Hermione pointedly, then shifted back to Severus. “First, the fact that I am about a month and a half with child. Of course, this is very early, but the blood law of the Council—or, I should say, Malfoy—is relevant.” She met Tom’s eyes with hers. “I wrote to you that you would remain the primary heir of Parselhall. Lord Severus and I have agreed about this. Although I continue to be ‘Lady Riddle’ due to my ruling position, the twins will bear the name Snape, in recognition of the holding and title for which they are in line. Severus’s family has vassal holdings of its own, including the manor that was his mother’s. The twins will be in the line of succession for the barony _after_ you and your line, Tom.”

“This means that you intend to do something about Malfoy,” Tom said excitedly.

Merope nodded, her face grim but resigned. “We have no choice anymore. Malfoy and Lestrange are out of control, now that Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black are dead. They have decreed that witches and wizards like Hermione have no rights, that wizards can use the Imperius Curse on their wives….”

“And they have essentially declared war on the magical culture of our homeland,” Tom added. “‘High treason’ to celebrate the old holidays… ‘petty treason’ to cast spells in Gaelic… Normans can use the Imperius Curse on those without that blood…. They have to go.” He gazed at Hermione briefly, then again at his mother. “I am concerned that the Blacks want to replace them.”

“Lord Black, Regulus’s father, seems quite ambitious,” Merope agreed. She thought for a moment about telling Tom and Hermione of Regulus’s idea that their future child should marry a child of the Blacks… but no, that would create an instant digression from the topic at hand. It was possible, too, that the Black family would prefer a match with one of the twins, since they would have purer blood than the children of Tom and Hermione. She would mention it at some other time, then.

“It should be us,” Tom argued. _“We_ should lead this. Even if Arcturus Black moderated Malfoy and Lestrange, he also collaborated with them in exchange for a seat on the Council.”

“These things will be decided in due time,” Merope said. “First, we just need to talk—to lay everything on this table, in a manner of speaking—”

“Our ‘Round Table,’” Tom put in, grinning.

“I suppose so,” Merope agreed. “The point is that we all know the same things. For my part, I can discuss our alliances. We have the families of Flint, Fawley, Avery, Wilkes, Nott, and Greengrass with us—and the majority of the House of Black as well. The only questions are Lord Cygnus and one of his daughters.”

“Lady Narcissa Malfoy,” Severus clarified.

“Bellatrix Lestrange, of course, is against us,” Merope continued. “Severus informs me that she and her husband have a strained relationship… and if she really did kill one of her husband’s own vassals for the appalling thing he did to her daughter, it’s _possible—_ unlikely, but possible—that she might abandon that side. However, I do not think she will join our side. The best we can hope for is that she will not fight against us. Still… we are fairly well fixed for allies. Unfortunately, we still lack vassals. Peter Pettigrew is the only one who has returned to my service. The Carrows have completely betrayed us, and Lord Fenrir has abandoned his wizardly heritage and embraced lycanthropy.”

“And I am not convinced that Pettigrew can be entirely trusted,” Severus said.

Hermione decided to speak up. “Nor am I. I heard from my friend at Hogwarts, Harry Potter, that he went to Harry’s father and told him what he had told you, Lady Merope, last summer—and that Harry’s father ordered his mother out of their home as a result of it.”

“What?” Tom said, startled. “What is this?” He had been vaguely aware that Pettigrew had told his mother something bad about Snape, but it had been around the same time that he had first gone to the sea cave, and he had ignored his family for the short period of time that remained in the summer after he had killed his father. Whatever Pettigrew had said, the storm had blown over quickly, given the fact that his mother had wedded Snape in October. He felt a disquieting sense of shame at the realization that he had been too self-absorbed and filled with spite to care.

“You didn’t know?” Snape said, astonishment in his words as his brow furrowed.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have asked,” Tom said, an edge to his voice. Even after drinking the potion and reconciling with Hermione, he still found Snape to be hard on his nerves.

“Very well,” the older wizard continued in his surprise. He glanced down at the tabletop as he explained. “Pettigrew insinuated that I might be the blood father of Harry Potter because I briefly had a romance with his mother before she was married. She was not engaged to Potter at the time. However, she reconciled with him quickly, so her husband could indeed be the father. There is no way to know for certain.”

Tom stared at him, amazed. He was glad that he had not paid attention. If he had known this, his anger at his mother’s marriage—and jealousy of Potter—would have been even worse. “And Potter’s father ordered his wife out of the house over that?”

Hermione nodded. “Harry did not want to go home. He did, of course, but he was reluctant.”

“Is that what Potter was talking about the day that… well….” Tom trailed off, not wanting to allude explicitly to the basilisk, but Hermione finished the sentence in her mind and nodded again.

“So,” Merope concluded, “it is fair to say that Pettigrew may be out for himself, to some degree. This makes it that much more critical to gain his full loyalty, of course. If anything would be worse than not having any sworn magical vassals, it would be to have a rogue in the castle. We must balance intelligent caution with considerate overtures.” She turned to Hermione. “I was aware that you had a friendship with Harry Potter. Do you have any insight into _why_ Pettigrew might have wanted to divide the Potter family? They were formerly of some prominence in Godric’s Hollow, during the time of Gryffindor. Are they trying to regain their position, perhaps?”

Hermione was eager to speak on this topic. “I think they must be,” she said. “There is a group at Hogwarts that are against Malfoy but are not aligned with the allies of this family. They call themselves the Friends of the Founders, because they represent all the Houses, and their parents also bear that name. The families include the Potters—though I suppose now it’s just Harry’s father—the Longbottoms of Hogsmeade, the Bones family, the Macmillans, and the Weasley family. Oh—and Luna Lovegood’s father is sympathetic to getting rid of Armand Malfoy, though apparently the others do not openly conspire with him.”

“What about High Master Dumbledore?” Merope said.

“Oh, yes, I think he must be part of it too,” Hermione said. “Mayor Longbottom tried to take the oath of fealty to him, but Malfoy voided it. And Sirius Black, who is Harry’s godfather… but Harry thinks he is on his mother’s side now.”

“His brother mentioned that he was courting a witch,” Severus said. “Do you know if anything ever came of that?”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “Yes—they’re engaged now.”

“Potter disapproved of the courtship,” Severus said, a dark smile forming on his face. “Black must indeed have been angered, if he defied his friend this way. Potter was always the leader of their wretched little team.”

“So it may be possible to have Sirius Black and his future wife as allies as well,” Merope mused. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Marlene McKinnon Valant. She was married to a Muggle who died fighting for one of the pretenders. She has a small child.”

“One of the pretenders,” Severus mused. “I wonder if Potter has a preference in the Muggle war and disapproved of Black’s courtship because this witch’s late husband fought for the other one? But if she is a widow, it should not matter anymore….”

Hermione remembered something else. “There is also a werewolf who lives in the forest outside Godric’s Hollow,” she said. “A friend of Potter and Black. His name is Lupin.”

“Pettigrew spoke of him,” Merope said briefly. “I suppose it’s worth considering if he still wants to live as a wizard when he is not transformed. Every wand helps.”

“Yes,” Tom said impatiently, “but now, what about _plans?_ It’s all very well to list our allies, but we can’t just blast through the walls of Malfoy Manor and Castle l’Etrange no matter how many of us there are. I also have some suspicions about old Malfoy himself….”

“What do you mean?” Severus asked.

Tom momentarily regretted mentioning it, because he knew his mother did not like hearing about the topics he was about to bring up, but ignoring the possibilities would not make them disappear. He steeled himself for her disapproval. “I am almost certain that Armand Malfoy drinks unicorn blood to extend the life of his body,” he began.

Severus considered that. “My sources have not confirmed that, but it may be that they _can’t._ They may be magically bound to silence on that topic. What makes you think it, Tom?”

Tom was momentarily affronted at the fact that Snape had called him by his nickname and without his title, but he supposed that Snape was his stepfather now and had the right. “He has the look of one who does it,” he said. “I’ve read about it. He has the physical signs. And I also wonder… I think anyone who would want to extend the life of his body _that_ much, to be willing to incur the unbreakable curse of drinking that, must have a reason. I seriously wonder if Malfoy has split his soul and created a Horcrux.”

Hermione had heard this theory from Tom before, before their long separation, but Merope and Severus were startled. “I damned well hope not,” Severus exclaimed. “That’s a big problem for us if he has.”

“Do you have any hard reason to think that?” Merope asked.

Tom shook his head. “There is only one visible sign, and it doesn’t appear in my memories of the Wizards’ Council meeting… but I wonder.”

Merope studied her son for a while. “Tom,” she finally said, “I know that you have been aware of that subject since your first year at Hogwarts, and you wrote to me that you were afraid that you would be executed lawlessly after that incident when Carrow tortured you. After last summer… your confrontation with your father….”

“I didn’t do it,” he said immediately, meeting his eyes with hers. “I didn’t make one.”

She gazed at him for an additional moment before accepting this. “Good. It’s a grim deed, not something that should be done lightly or selfishly, but only to safeguard the last heir of a bloodline when the family is at risk of extinction.”

Tom had never heard his mother express that opinion before. The one time he had brought up Horcruxes in her hearing had been when Hermione was first visiting Diagon Alley. She had slapped him down hard then. “Mother?” he inquired curiously. “What do you—”

“Not now, Tom,” she said. “We need to finish talking about Malfoy and Lestrange. And as for Malfoy… I hope you’re wrong. But if anyone would do it for selfish reasons, it would be someone capable of murdering his own son as a traitor at the behest of a lackey.”

Tom agreed. “And it’s for that very reason—well, that and others—that we need… something else.” He was suddenly unsure of what he was about to say, not because he questioned the idea, but because he realized, after his epiphany about how he had disregarded Hermione, that she very likely would not like this idea at all. Taking a deep breath, he gazed at the table as he spoke. “I have an idea… but I do not know how well Hermione will like it.”

Hermione suddenly knew what Tom had in mind. “Tom, are you referring to the basilisk of Slytherin?”

He grimaced guiltily. “Basilisk venom can destroy a Horcrux… and it’s _such_ a good weapon in its own right.”

“Tom,” she protested, “that thing, in this castle—” She shuddered.

“Dumbledore wants to kill it,” he protested. “I would never consider bringing it here otherwise, but he wants it _dead._ Or so he claims,” he added darkly. “If he is working closely with the Weasleys, he might want it for himself.”

“He is working with them,” she muttered as a memory suddenly came to the forefront of her mind. “I overheard him and Professor McGonagall in an argument about the Weasleys one night.”

“Oh?” Severus inquired. “When? What did they say?”

Hermione tried to remember. “It was very early in September. We had just returned to Hogwarts from the summer. Professor McGonagall was arguing that ‘they believed what they were saying’ and that the evidence for it was in the behavior of ‘the boys’ at Hogwarts. Dumbledore insisted that ‘they,’ the parents, were merely saying whatever it was to get what they desired and that they did not mean it. McGonagall disagreed and specifically spoke against the mother of these boys that she mentioned. Neither of them actually named the Weasleys, but Harry and I both agreed that they were talking about them. And Ginevra Weasley doesn’t get on well with her brothers… which does not surprise me. The youngest brother seemed to _support_ the most recent Malfoy law about the Imperius Curse for witches. She said that this was typical and that their mother excused it in her sons.”

Tom was transfixed, and outrage filled every line of his face. “So the Weasleys support Malfoy’s vile decrees against witches,” he said. “And Dumbledore thinks that they don’t actually mean it, but McGonagall—a witch—does.”

“Well, they did not actually state what it was that they were arguing about.”

“It was probably that.”

“Yes, it was,” she admitted.

“There you have it, then,” Tom said. “The Weasleys and Dumbledore are not to be trusted either—not that I did anyway. They’re probably assuming that this Muggle-based tripe of Malfoy’s is what the magical aristocracy wants, so they think they have to maintain it in their power grab. Of _course_ that’s what it’s about,” he exclaimed. “That’s what the Friends of the Founders are doing. And of course they believe it themselves! Look at how Potter’s father treated his wife. All of our adversaries want to adopt Muggle values. It is a disgrace, and it’s another reason why we should lead this fight.”

Merope put up a hand for silence. “Severus can probably ask Lord Regulus to investigate the Friends of the Founders, especially if Sirius Black and Lily Potter are now at odds with the rest of them. The werewolf, Lupin, may also be a promising source. I am more interested in the basilisk right at the moment.” She gave Tom a hard look. “Frankly, Tom, I am very sympathetic to Hermione’s concern about having it in the castle.”

Tom’s face fell. “But….” He trailed off, glancing at Hermione. The basilisk had almost killed her. It _had_ Petrified her. He did not want Dumbledore to order it killed, but he could understand why Hermione would not want such a thing beneath her feet. He reached under the table and took her hand. _“I’m sorry,”_ he mouthed to her. Her eyes gleamed as she looked at him, and she squeezed his hand back.

“That said, I understand as well why _you_ do not want it killed—or left in the hands of Albus Dumbledore.” She took a deep breath and extended her linked fingers in front of her on the table. “As a girl, I was horrified and traumatized by the things that my father and brother did involving serpents. They ritually murdered Muggle villagers with them… and occasionally even our vassals’ family members, to terrorize them. Although a Parselmouth myself like all of the family after Slytherin, I did not like to hear the language for the longest time, because I associated it with them. The basilisk….” She sighed. “The dungeons are readily accessible, and there aren’t really any cells large enough to hold such a creature.”

“Perhaps we could lie to Dumbledore,” Tom said. “Go into the Chamber and then come back out _telling_ him it was dead, but in reality it was just in a magical sleep.”

“Dumbledore is a very clever wizard, and he would certainly want proof. There is another possibility,” Merope said, rising from her chair. The rest of the family followed respectfully. “There is a vault in this castle that is lower than the dungeons. It is accessible only by the head of the family, the baron or ruling baroness.” She gave Tom a pointed look. “That would mean me.”

“A vault?” Tom exclaimed. “Why is that never mentioned in any of the books about the Gaunt family?”

Merope smiled grimly. “For _very_ good reason, as you will see. It is a family secret. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.”

She glanced at Hermione. “I should warn you, this will likely be disturbing. You do not have to come if you don’t want to.”

Hermione considered before shaking her head. “I should see it too. I know you would not take us there if there were any real danger.”

Merope considered for a moment before nodding. She opened the doors to the family dining room and led the other three down the corridor.

* * *

The dungeons of Parselhall contained very few malefactors. Crime was rare in Hangleton, to Merope’s credit. The family passed right by the cell block, continuing and turning a corridor to face a blank wall. Merope strode ahead, drew her wand, and cut her palm open with a nonverbal curse. She pressed it against the stone wall, which—after a second in which it seemed that magic itself hesitated—slid away to reveal a dark descending staircase. Merope healed her hand and lit the tip of her wand. The others did the same and began their descent.

The stairs continued deeper and deeper. The risers were not steep at all, but their short height made it easy to stumble and trip, as they were not a convenient or natural height for stepping down. Even Hermione, the shortest person of the group, wanted to take deeper steps than these stairs allowed. The staircase overall seemed to extend much farther horizontally—many times so—than vertically.

They reached a broad landing and a circular room with walls interrupted by a single broad arch. Merope moved forward and pushed open the door in this arch, then turned to the other three with a dark smile on her face. “This is it,” she said. They filed through the arch, Tom eagerly, Severus and Hermione much more gingerly.

A vast cavern spread out before their eyes, at least fifty feet tall and probably twice as wide. Their meager wandlight only vaguely hinted at unsettling shadows and forms. Merope directed her wand at a low-walled circular pit in the center and sent a jet of magical flame toward it. Whatever fuel was in the center kindled immediately, illuminating the cavern.

 _“Oh!”_ Hermione exclaimed. Her gaze had been immediately caught by a vast skeleton in the far corner of the room—the skeleton of a very recognizable creature. Nervous but excited, she edged over to that side of the room.

The dragon skeleton was curled up, the wings folded and the tail wrapped around the vast body. Around it were large, dark, dry stains on the stone floor. Hermione gasped again as she got a good look at the skull. The cranium of the dragon’s skull had been shattered to pieces. This was likely the death blow to the creature, an unbelievably powerful and shockingly violent curse. _Why?_ Hermione thought, gazing upon the skeleton. _Who would do that?_

Tom had noticed too. “What happened to it?” he exclaimed, his dark eyes wide with shock. “Was this the princess’s dragon?”

“It could have been hers,” Merope said. “That is certainly the family tradition. _Someone_ definitely brought it into this vault in the sixth century—through another door, a vast one.” She nodded at the wall opposite the dragon’s skeleton. “It opens to the side of the hill.”

Parselhall, like many castles, was settled atop a low hill for defensive reasons. “That tunnel went all the way down the hill?” Tom said.

She nodded. “If I opened the door—and again, I am the only one who can do it—we would be in the valley. That is how the dragon was brought in, and it is how the basilisk _could_ be let in.”

“But if it was the princess’s, why would a _Gaunt_ kill it?” Tom was obviously distraught at the violence that had killed the dragon. He gazed at the dark stains on the floor, his brow furrowing.

“Tom, I do not know what kind of views you have formed about her—if indeed she was the one who brought this dragon into the vault—but the chances are that they are… incomplete.”

“What do you mean?”

Merope’s face was grim in the firelight. “The family tradition _also_ says that after she came to this place on the dragon, she became quite a tyrant—though not in so many words. That is _my_ opinion of her conduct; the rest of the family seemed to regard it with pride. Her eventual husband, the wizard lord Eóghan, was essentially forced to admit her to the castle—for who would gainsay someone on a dragon? He had been an ally of her father Mordred but had not fought in the battle, correctly guessing that their cause was doomed. She nursed her grudge against Arthur’s supporters for the rest of her life, and _quite_ a long life it was, using magic to capture them and feed them to that dragon. Eventually she started to set it on her own people, she was harboring so much resentment and fear. Her own husband was apparently the dragon’s final victim. Their son Gant, supposedly the father of Lady Dunwen Mac Gant—the author of _The Faithless Advisor,”_ Merope added in an aside to Hermione and Severus, “cast the curse that killed it.”

Tom thought about this. “Could she communicate with it? I have never heard of any Gaunts who could speak Draconic.”

“That gift is not in our blood. She _could_ communicate with it, but not because she could speak its language.”

“Then how—” Tom suddenly realized something. _“Oh,”_ he breathed. He gazed at the dragon’s ruined skull, then at his mother. “Quite a long life it was,” he repeated in a low voice.

Merope nodded. “As I implied at the table, it was rational of her to create one, in a way. She was the last of her line, with no children yet, and the dragon had saved her. But she never did let go of her grudge against Arthur’s supporters, and it grew to encompass the whole world, including her own family, whom she saw as her enemy, scheming in secret behind her back and keeping her from her rightful throne. Her dragon was forcibly linked with her soul, and it was also her weapon against them.”

Tom was silent as he contemplated that. _How close I came to that myself,_ he thought uncomfortably. He hugged Hermione.

“Oral history says that she died when her dragon did—but that was not the end. She lingered as a vengeful, angry ghost.” Merope lifted her trailing skirts so that they would not pick up anything from the stone floor and walked to another arched doorway. “Follow me. You need to see this.”

Hermione gasped in shock when she was inside the adjacent room. It was circular, and incomparably ancient. The walls were adorned with carvings of limestone, chased with marble, depicting figures of Celtic gods and goddesses—but the style of the sculpture was chilling in its starkness of line, of light and dark. There was something almost bestial about the figures. Along one curve of the wall, a triple goddess glared down at them, impossibly round eyes entirely encircling pupils. The goddess’s mouth was open in a threatening snarl, her teeth exquisitely carved and menacing. Hermione shuddered and glanced at the other side of the circle, where an intimidating god stared ahead, his face angular and almost skeletal. He held a thread that was cut.

Hermione then noticed something else, and this was far more horrifying than a creepy style of sculpture. In front of each figure, a stone bench stood, and on every one of those benches were dark stains that spattered across the entire room. Hermione gazed upward, noticing that the death god—or so she guessed it to be—was also covered in it, and this long-dried blood accounted for some of the dark coloring of the stone. She covered her mouth to muffle the cry. Those splotches reached the ceiling.

“What would you have to _do_ to—” She broke off, shuddering again.

Tom noticed her distress and moved closer, placing an arm around her. She leaned against his side, shaking.

“Fortunately, I never witnessed a ritual in this room,” Merope said. “I do not think that my father or brother ever learned how to do such things. But for several centuries—certainly up until the founding of Hogwarts, when the Gaunts finally ventured into the wider world and had to change some of their most appalling practices—they performed magical sacrifices in here. The act of ritual murder has a lot of magical power.”

Tom nodded. “It does. This, though….” He glanced at the splotches on the ceiling. “Surely there is no need to use a curse _that_ violent. And if they used their own _villagers_ for this, legally obligated to them by feudal law… that’s not right.”

“That’s an understatement,” Hermione muttered. He wrapped his other arm around her to embrace her fully and squeezed her.

“Tradition says that Lady Dunwen’s brother, the lord of the castle—and, yes, also her husband, Tom—performed a ritual before the Celtic god of the dead on Samhain to open a door to the Otherworld, and banished Ceridwyn’s ghost through it,” Merope said.

Tom’s eyes flashed in interest at that. “It should be possible,” he said.

“Tom,” Merope said in warning.

“I just said that the idea makes sense,” he said. “The Veil is thinner that night. I’m not going to _do_ it.” He gazed at the dried blood on the ceiling. “That’s hideous. I understand now why you were always so reluctant to talk about them.” He glanced down. “I understand all of it. And… the princess… if the family tradition is true, then her story has a lot more meaning for me than you can imagine.”

They filed out of the ritual chamber. Hermione squeezed Tom’s hand. “You were going to tell me about Morgana’s athame,” she said. “The one that this princess supposedly placed in the sea cave.”

Merope’s eyebrows flew up her forehead. “Morgana’s athame? What is this?”

Tom sighed and rubbed his head. “The sea cave on the coast, close to Wales,” he said. “That was where I went that day last summer—and I returned the day before yesterday.”

“You _found_ the sea cave where she supposedly stayed?”

Tom nodded. “She really was there, too. There is an inner cave filled with fresh water— _magical_ fresh water—and a basin full of potion that you have to drink. She had placed the Athame of Morgana in this basin.” He glanced at Hermione and released her hand, placing his arm around her waist instead as he began his tale.

Merope, Severus, and Hermione all listened with increasing awe as Tom described the magical barriers and properties of the cave. When he talked about the potion’s effects, his voice grew husky, and he was suddenly no longer willing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“So, it showed me the results of everything cruel I had said and done over the past two years,” he mumbled, looking at his feet. “I cannot describe it adequately. I am glad I went, though. I needed to.” He gazed at the dragon’s skeleton. “If Ceridwyn drank of it and experienced that same thing, how could she have gone so wrong afterward?”

“No potion will retain its effects forever,” Hermione said gently. “It was a catalyst for you, Tom, but you have to….”

“To make the change permanent by my own will,” he said. He sighed. “Mother, about the basilisk. If Hermione doesn’t want it here, then….” He trailed off. “I cannot kill it myself, but if it has to be done….”

Hermione gazed around the cavern, coming to a decision. “This vault is not actually _part_ of Parselhall. It would not be the same as having it in a cell in the dungeons, a mere floor or two below my feet, with an ordinary door as the barrier. I went to Hogwarts for three and a half years when it _really was,_ after all. The basilisk can be kept here… as long as it is put into a magical sleep.” She gazed wryly at Tom. “And none of the villagers are ritually fed to it.”

Merope nodded. “Very well. The basilisk will be brought here and stored in this vault. I will write to High Master Dumbledore to inform him of this decision. We will retrieve it from Hogwarts in the summer—once _no one is at the school,”_ she said pointedly to Tom.

“Dumbledore wants it gone as soon as possible,” he argued.

“He will have to accept my terms. That beast belongs to this family, and I get to decide when and how it leaves Hogwarts. I am _quite_ certain that he will want my terms to include a promise that you will not attempt to open the Chamber of Slytherin again.”

“And so I won’t,” he said. “I have no desire to try that again. That would be a betrayal of Hermione.”

“Yes, it would,” Merope said. She turned to Severus. “There is nothing else to see in this vault.”

“Yes, I think we have seen quite enough,” he agreed, holding out his arm for her. They led the way through the arched doorway, beginning the ascent of the long, interminable staircase.

* * *

That night, Merope lay on her pillow next to Severus in their bed. “I have not heard anything from Malfoy and Lestrange about their plot for me involving Caractacus Burke,” she said.

Severus sighed. “My ‘little sources’ have not had anything to report about that. I will ask them when I make my request about information on Sirius Black and the ‘Friends of the Founders,’ as Hermione called them. I do not know how invested Burke himself was in the idea of being a lord. It took them a while to persuade him, and it ultimately required a push from Arcturus Black.”

“But after they killed Black, Burke continued to support the scheme. Our marriage was the only thing that thwarted it. When Tom was manipulated into killing his father, Regulus warned us that something was about to happen. They intended to be at the gates to force the issue. Of that I am convinced.”

“And I’m sure that you are right,” Severus agreed, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. He leaned back on his pillow. “I am not convinced that they consider the scheme thwarted, unfortunately.”

“Severus!” she exclaimed in horror. “But that would mean—”

“That they want me dead,” he finished. “I am aware of that, dear. They want all of us dead, you included—eventually.” He rubbed his eyes. “We will have to make war openly against them. That is no longer a choice. I am glad that we discussed it as a family today.”

“And I am glad that we all _are_ a family,” she added. “Tom and Hermione have reconciled at last.”

“Yes, I expect they have,” he said dryly. “I am reasonably sure that they are in her bedchamber. We could check to be certain.”

Merope considered. “At this point, less than six months from their wedding, I am not going to concern myself with it. Hermione knows how to make the potion. They consummated their betrothal over two years ago, and they have been estranged for so long, Severus. Let them have this now if they need it. I was afraid that they would never reconcile.”

Severus was startled that she knew so much about the matter, but if she did not care—and he supposed that she had logical reasons not to care—then it was nothing to him. Tom was not his son, nor Hermione his daughter. “It sounds as if he needed all the help he could get.”

“If the Elixir of Repentance helped, then I am glad he drank of it,” she said. “I have been worried about him for a long time. He was so close to becoming like one of the ancestral Gaunts.” She gazed ahead wryly, her free hand settling on her lower belly. “I hope that these two make it—you must understand, Severus,” she said hurriedly in response to his blanching—“I was _injured_ in childbirth and did not have an expert healer. I hope they make it, and I hope that there really is nothing in the Gaunt blood that leads to those… tendencies.”

“I am sure there isn’t. _You_ don’t have those ‘tendencies.’”

She smiled. “I suppose not.” She leaned over and kissed him. After a time, they broke apart, but in the very next moment she curled against him and closed her eyes. He rested his large hands on top of hers, a symbol of protection for their twins.

* * *

In Hermione’s bedroom, Tom traced spiral patterns on her flushed skin as they heaved breaths of satisfaction and relief. “I had almost forgotten what this was like,” Hermione gasped.

Tom chuckled as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “So had I,” he said. “I love you very much, Hermione. I had forgotten _that_ too.”

She returned the kiss. “I am glad that we both had our memories refreshed.”

“Yes.”

They stayed like that for a while, embracing in the nude, as their breaths slowed to a normal rate. At last Tom spoke.

“I did not intend to put pressure on you about the basilisk. If you don’t want it here, I am sure that you can tell Mother.”

“Tom, I cannot say that I love the idea of having it here, but it’s true that it lived ‘under my feet’ at Hogwarts for three and a half years and did no harm in its magical sleep. At least it cannot escape that vault on its own. I do understand the need of having such a powerful weapon rather than effectively disarming oneself.” She hesitated. “I’m more worried about the idea of your using it in war, though.”

“I would apply a blindfold when I did not intend to use its gaze to kill enemies.”

“But suppose you momentarily forgot and looked at it. I never thought I would suggest this, but… the thing that your royal ancestor did….”

“Hermione, are you suggesting what I think you are? Even after what you heard from my mother about how that turned out for her?”

“No! It’s as your mother said. I do not want you to do that. I just… don’t want to lose you. That basilisk is dangerous. Please, promise me—promise me as a _wizard—_ that you will be careful, and use it only as a last resort. A necessity in warfare.”

Tom considered for a moment, but in the end, there was no question of it. He nodded. “I promise, Hermione.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve occasionally brought up dragons in this story, and the Gaunt bloodline is pretty blatantly “House Targaryen.” (I mean this in terms of certain details about their history, tendencies, and magical abilities. Despite that and the equally blatant Black-Stark comparison, this story has its own plot and is _not_ a retelling of GRRM’s work. Also, I _don’t_ think there is a clear comparison between Malfoy/Lestrange and House Lannister.) However, they are not going to use dragons in the upcoming conflict. Tom is already a Parselmouth; it gets into Gary-Stu territory to give him the ability to talk to dragons as well. The thing is, in this AU I’ve made Parselhall be fairly close to Wales due to the strong Celtic streak in both the Gaunt and Riddle families, and Welsh Greens are canon, and it would’ve felt like an oversight to not mention them at all. Nonetheless, the narrative purpose of their previous connection to the Gaunts is described in this chapter. Tom has romanticized his ancestors at the expense of the family he actually knows, even after what he’s learned about them from Merope and from reading. He needed this jolt to truly accept their very strong dark side (including that of specific ancestors he admires), distance himself from that, and make his case based on his ideals rather than strictly his heritage.


	40. Shadows in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! Your feedback keeps me motivated.
> 
> I am not sure about this chapter; it doesn't seem very exciting to me, but perhaps some chapters just won't be. Things continue to advance, though.
> 
> Also, almost 250,000 words? I look at the total and I can hardly believe it. We've still a ways yet. I estimate 15 more chapters, approximately.
> 
>  **Warning** : There is a death in this chapter, and unlike the deaths that have occurred so far, this one is likely to be upsetting.

_Malfoy Manor._

Dobby had not been given a task to complete, but neither had he been prohibited from nosing about the castle. The elf’s contact, Kreacher, had just passed on some questions for him to investigate.

_“What of the forced marriage plot involving Lady Riddle and Caractacus Burke? Does Armand Malfoy drink unicorn blood? Do his eyes ever flash red, especially when he is angry?”_

Unfortunately, Dobby could not give his answer to the second question. It was not because he did not know the answer, but because he had been sworn to silence. He could tell Kreacher _that,_ though, and let the other elf—or his master—deduce what he would from it. It seemed clear enough to Dobby what such an oath would imply. He was not sure about the third one—he himself had never seen that happen, but he typically exited from his master’s presence whenever Lord Malfoy was having a fit.

As for the first question, he knew that Lord Malfoy did still intend to pursue the scheme. His wrath upon receiving Lady Riddle’s notification of her betrothal to Severus Snape had been terrible to behold. It was, in fact, one of the times that Dobby had left the room at once. He now wished that he had stayed, and found a place to hide, so that he would have been able to tell Kreacher if the lord’s eyes had flashed red during that.

The good thing—one of the only good things, in Dobby’s opinion—about being a house-elf was that he was good at making himself unobtrusive. Master’s advisor and attendant, the wicked Lord Lestrange, was in the family parlor with him. Dobby lurked in the shadows, hiding beneath a chair in the most shadowed corner of the room. The wizards had a candle on the table that stood between their chairs, but little light from it reached the corner where Dobby crouched. It was dangerous, but such was the life of a spy. Dobby was proud that he _was_ spying for those who might help him and the other house-elves who were enslaved to Malfoy allies.

Across the room, Armand Malfoy set down the apple that he had just cut open, as well as the knife he had used, and turned to Rodolphus Lestrange in the grand parlor. Lestrange’s manner was still as dutiful as ever, but there were lines of strain in his face.

“What has happened to my heretofore useful tools?” Malfoy said abruptly.

“Whom do you mean, precisely, my lord?” Lestrange rather hoped that Malfoy did not mean him. The man’s moods truly were mercurial. Abraxas might have been a traitor, but he had been correct about that, loath as Lestrange was to admit it.

“I considered it quite a coup when the Carrows swore themselves to you,” he said. “Of what use have they been, though? Carrow himself tortured the Riddle half-blood—but that cost me a large sum of gold in the thousands in taxes that Lady Riddle owed!”

Lestrange did not dare remind the high lord that agreeing to void Lady Riddle’s tax debt had been Malfoy’s own idea, and that at the time, he had considered it a brilliant one, since Caractacus Burke was supposedly going to marry Lady Riddle soon. _That_ certainly had not happened.

“The Carrows have provided useful information,” Lestrange said hesitantly.

“Not that useful! I had hoped that they would know of some kind of secret way into Castle Gaunt”—they never used the name “Parselhall”—“but if such a thing even exists, it is useless. The woman really has made the place impregnable by magic.” He scowled. “And Burke has lost his enthusiasm about marrying Lady Riddle now. He knows that it would require Snape’s death, and he expressed to me recently that he no longer believes it is even possible.”

“What did he mean by _that?_ Not possible to kill Snape? What does he know about Snape’s secrets that we don’t, my lord?”

“You misunderstand me, Rodolphus. All I mean is that Burke does not think the castle can be penetrated, and that any attempt to enter it, murder Snape, and force Lady Riddle to marry Burke would merely end in the slaughter of the invasion force.”

Lestrange did not want to gainsay his high lord, but he did not disagree with that assessment.

“He proposed another plan to me involving that damned locket of Slytherin that he was so proud of purchasing,” Malfoy sneered. “This plan consists of placing a curse on the locket that would slowly kill its owner, but offering the object for sale to the Riddle boy—through someone else, of course, since Burke knows that Riddle would not trust _him.”_

Lestrange considered that. “It’s a fair plan, I suppose, if the goal is to kill the half-blood. I am not sure it would work—he’s said to be an exceptional wizard and would probably detect the curse—but it might succeed if the curse were subtle enough. But I cannot see how this would help get rid of Snape. Lady Riddle told us three and a half years ago at the Wizards’ Council that she could still conceive. I expect it’s only a matter of time before she has a child with Snape.” He studied his folded hands. “Any such child would be of far purer blood—not truly pureblood, since Snape himself is only half-blood, but better. And the death of Riddle would eliminate any right of the Mudblood Granger to live among _our_ people. Under your laws about Mudbloods from last winter, they are only allowed to associate with witches and wizards if they are married to one. Perhaps it’s not the worst idea.”

Malfoy slammed his fist down on the nearest table. “Rodolphus! I expected more faith from you!”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said reflexively.

“Burke’s idea is, as you say, not bad, but it constitutes giving up—admitting defeat. And Burke does not have a plan for anything that would happen _after_ Riddle’s death. His mother naturally would seek vengeance, and Burke has no response. I have already thought about this, Rodolphus, and I have determined that we will continue with the original plans. Even Snape’s marriage does not change them; he would have died anyway once Burke took over Castle Gaunt. This just means he has to die _first.”_

Lestrange did not agree with this view. If the castle was impregnable, then it seemed as though Burke was right. Any attack would be repelled or the attackers picked off easily. He chose his words carefully, though. “What, my lord, do you have in mind for breaching the castle’s defenses?”

Malfoy leaned forward, smiling. “Do you remember the time I mentioned a spy who used the name ‘Wormtail’? He told my family about Snape’s poisoning of Morfin Gaunt, and he also informed Lucius of the planned treasonous uprising in Godric’s Hollow.”

Lestrange remembered. “Do you think you know who he is? Could he help?”

“I do think I know who he is, and if I am correct, then he is already in a position that will be of infinite use to us.” Malfoy’s face darkened momentarily. “The only question I would have for him is why he has not made any contact with us since assuming this position, or even told us his real name and the fact that he _has_ such a useful post. He will have some explaining to do, if it’s who I think it is.”

“Who, my lord—”

“I think it is Peter Pettigrew, who is now a sworn vassal of Lady Riddle.”

Lestrange’s eyes widened in awe—and then he noticed the tiny form hiding in the shadows.

Dobby realized at once that he had been seen. He had tried his best to conceal his movements—it was dark enough that it should be hard for the wizards to notice him if he remained still—but this last bit of shocking information had been too much for him. He had twitched in surprise—and instantly knew that he had given away his position.

Malfoy saw what Lestrange had seen. In a flash, far more quickly than Lestrange would have supposed an old man could move—though, he thought, other old men did not drink a dark restorative—he was on his feet, advancing toward the elf.

“Elf,” he commanded, “I order you to stay where you are. Now, what did you hear?”

Dobby stared back defiantly.

“I _order_ you to tell me what you heard!”

Against his will, Dobby’s lips parted. “Everything, Master,” he croaked.

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. “And why were you listening? I order you to tell me the truth.”

A shiver darted down Dobby’s spine. He cursed that twitch. Kreacher needed to know this—he needed to know what Dobby had just heard! But now….

“Dobby was asked to,” he uttered, his tongue and lips moving of their own accord, compelled by the vile magic of enslavement. He was sure he knew what was coming next—

“By whom?”

Dobby’s eyelids fluttered closed as the words left Malfoy’s mouth, but then he realized that all was not lost. Malfoy had not—yet—ordered him to answer the question. He had only moments, though. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned the sharp blade that Malfoy had used to cut his apple. Before Malfoy could make his question a command, Dobby plunged the knife into his own heart, a defiant grin on his lips as he took the last freedom that he could.

Malfoy and Lestrange screamed in dismay as the little elf’s life bled out onto the floor. In fury, Malfoy pulled out strands of his white hair. He turned to Lestrange.

“Lucius,” he snarled. “Lucius or Narcissa.”

“My lord, are you sure it couldn’t be Snape?”

“How could he even meet with Snape? Malfoys are the only ones who can give orders to Malfoy elves, and they can’t leave Malfoy properties unless they are told to. Lucius or Narcissa—or both—have been using that little thing to spy on us!” He picked up his wand and stormed for the door. “I will question the rest of them immediately.”

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

For the two couples of Parselhall, the rest of the holidays passed blissfully. Severus did not worry about the fact that he had not received any information from his “little source” in response to the questions he had sent through Regulus. The elves had to meet in the dungeons of Castle Draconis, the home of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy—the one place that both of them could visit—and such meetings were inherently risky. Then, too, it was likely that the Malfoy elf would not immediately learn the information Severus sought. He was not going to fret about it just yet. There were too many pleasant thoughts to enjoy instead.

One evening right after New Year’s Day, Severus and Merope sat in the family parlor together, side by side. They spoke little to each other, but little needed to be said aloud.

Severus’s black-eyed gaze often darted down to Merope’s lap, even though there was not yet anything for him to see. He knew that the twins were there; their magic had confirmed it, and that was all that he needed to know. His wife—he turned the word over in his mind every time he thought it, almost caressing the thought itself—was pregnant with twins, and she was taking her potions faithfully. He was still afraid to hope, but it seemed that they might just be born alive. The prospect of being a father— _truly_ a father, with children who were definitely his and whom he could raise as a father—was incredible to him. As a formerly dispossessed half-blood, he had not expected any noble witch to ever consider him, and after he met Merope, he was unable to consider taking a commoner—or, really, _anyone_ else—as his wife. And for now, the whole family was at peace and without conflict.

Even young Lord Thomas, Severus had to admit, was behaving tolerably, which must in large part be attributed to his reconciliation. Severus was glad of that too. He would not have said it to Merope in so many words, even though he was sure she had felt the same way herself, but her son had conducted himself atrociously toward Lady Hermione for a while. Merope’s information that the two had been intimate two years ago had retroactively made Severus’s opinion of Lord Thomas’s previous conduct even worse. Lady Hermione herself had sometimes been hard on his nerves, she was so earnest and rather inclined to show off, but that was at least understandable to Severus, who had felt as a young man that he had to prove himself too. But what could one say about a wizard who had a powerful, intelligent, kind fiancée and treated her ill? Severus was glad that Lord Thomas had gone to that cave and drunk that potion, since the result was—so far—a welcome change in his behavior.

Merope was even gladder to see the change in Tom’s behavior. In addition to being sad for Hermione’s sake at the way that Tom ignored and dismissed her, she had not liked _at all_ some of the patterns that she had been seeing. She supposed that it was natural for any witch or wizard to have personal inclinations or interests in specific fields of magic, and she knew that Tom was very proud of his predominantly Celtic ancestry, but she had not liked seeing him carry around books full of instructions for murderous rituals. The scene in the Gaunts’ crypt had shaken him; that much was clear. He had certainly had a sunny view of Ceridwyn, her father, and her grandmother; and it was good that his thoughts about Ceridwyn herself had received a jolt, even if he likely did still have idealistic views of Mordred and Morgana—to say nothing of Slytherin, who was not quite so distant. Merope also wondered just how interested Tom actually had been in a Horcrux. He had unquestionably read about the topic in his first year at Hogwarts, which seemed appallingly young to Merope. It was for the best that she had shown him the vault, even though she had not wanted to visit it due to her own disturbing memories and concern that it would influence Tom in exactly the opposite way to what she wished. He needed to make the reformation of the remorse potion permanent, and knowing that it was up to him—that the potion itself was only a temporary catalyst—would help. Merope was also relieved, for her own sake, that she had decided at last to plan serious steps against Malfoy and Lestrange. Tom would look at the twins—if they lived—as threats for as long as Malfoy or his sympathizers ruled. That was not to say that Merope looked forward to war—no one in their right mind would—but it seemed inevitable now, and it was good that the four of them were on the same page.

That same chilly evening just after New Year’s Day, while the more sensible adults were indoors in a parlor, Hermione and Tom were huddled together on the rooftop of the family quarters wing of the castle, warming themselves with a magical fire. It was a marvelously clear night, and they were admiring the twinkling stars.

“There’s… Regulus,” he said, pointing at the star, a grin appearing on his face as he uttered the name.

Hermione laughed and snuggled close to him. “Do you think that this is a sign that the _wizard_ Regulus is going to appear soon?” she teased.

“It could be.”

His voice was completely serious. She gazed at him in surprise. “Tom, Divination seems very questionable to me. Perhaps there are real prophecies, but to use the stars to predict specific, small events in someone’s life….”

“I only said that it could be.”

“He is an ally of this family,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s a logical inference.”

Tom shook his head in amusement as he hugged her closely. “This is why I am so glad that we reconciled,” he said through chuckles.

She laughed with him as she welcomed the warmth of his body. _“I_ am so glad that you decided to change your ways and return to me!”

He held her. “For some reason, I valued an incestuous, ritually-murdering, tyrannical family line more than you or my mother. It was stupid.” He sighed and gazed over the ramparts. “Mother is going to have twins. I admit, I don’t like thinking about her and Snape—well—”

Hermione smiled wryly. “That is entirely understandable, Tom. I never liked thinking about my parents’ intimacies.”

“Well,” he said briskly, “she is, of course, but if we really can remove Malfoy and Lestrange and reverse his awful laws, then I won’t have to worry about the twins. They will grow up as Snape heirs and not get any ‘ideas’ in their heads. But I was thinking lately, over the past few days… my— _father”_ —he grimaced at the word—“had a Muggle wife. She was with child as well. She has probably had that baby now. She was rather far along.”

Hermione gazed at him in surprise and disapproval. “You killed him when he had a pregnant wife?”

He looked pained. “Hermione, let me explain. I do not know what, if anything, my mother told you about it.”

“Very little.” She met his eyes. “All right. Whatever happened, I am willing to listen.”

“He really did deserve it, Hermione, and not just because he abandoned us to starve—though that in itself is reason enough. He struck my mother while wearing a suit of armor, including gauntlets over his hands. He shed her blood. I saw the memory of it in his mind. Even if that sort of thing is acceptable to Muggles, and… magical nobles who accept Muggle customs—”

Hermione was grateful that he had not said “Normans.”

“—it is _not_ acceptable in traditional magical culture in this country. He called her the vilest of names, merely because she had concealed her Gaunt heritage from him, knowing that he was afraid of the family. He referred to _me_ as a bastard, despite the fact that they were lawfully married by the same priest who married Mother and Snape. And when I finally challenged him to a duel, he attempted to stab me in the neck while I was still bowing. Dishonorable fighting entitles me to a forfeit.”

Hermione considered this. “By all the laws of honor, you are right. He did deserve it. I understand, I think. Your mother did mention this, but not in much detail.”

“She may not have wanted to talk about the details. We had an argument.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. “What of his wife, then?”

“It occurred to me that even though her child is a Muggle, it’s still my half-brother or half-sister. I do not know how Sir Thomas provided for them. If the child is a boy, then he inherited, and she will probably manage the manor house in the child’s name for many years. But if the child is a girl, then they may have been removed from the house if the heir—or the lord—wanted that. Muggle females inherit only if there is no other heir, as you well know.”

Hermione was gazing at him in surprise, awe, and increasing affection. “What were you thinking, Tom?”

He took a deep breath. “I was thinking about asking them—well, having Mother look into it, and if the child is a girl, for _her_ to ask them if they need a home. I don’t really know of what use a pair of Muggles would be… but perhaps there would be something for them to do in the village of Hangleton, useful to us or not. And it would be better for them to live under the rule of magical people, especially if the baby is female.”

Hermione hugged him. He embraced her in return, holding her. She smiled at the contact, the warmth of his body and the closeness of his arms around her. “I am so glad that you thought of this,” she said, separating from him. “But… you should realize, she might not want to live in Hangleton. She might not care for the charity of the mother of the person who made her a widow.”

“That is true,” he admitted, “but I think we should still make the offer.”

She thought about it for a moment as another issue occurred to her. “There’s something else, Tom,” she said hesitantly. “There could be issues later, if one of your mother’s twins is a boy and this child is a girl—or even if the reverse is true. Even as a villager, this child would be your half-sibling. Your mother’s twins will also be… but there will be no blood relation between this Muggle child and your mother’s twins. Unless they are all of the same sex, this Muggle child could someday wed one of the twins. That would be a blatant challenge to you.”

Tom was impressed by her canny. That had truly not occurred to him. There had been times when he had thought that Slytherin was a very bad fit for earnest, idealistic Hermione… but now, he remembered that she had been raised a nobleman’s daughter. He thought about what she had said before replying.

“It might be,” he acknowledged, “but Mother and Snape could prevent such a marriage… and the twins will be raised noble. The Muggle Riddle child might not even come in contact with them. And even if that does happen, and they decide not to keep them from marrying, my rights are still paramount. To be honest, Hermione,” he said, “in terms of a challenge to me—to _us—_ it might be _better_ for neither of the twins to marry above themselves. I would be more concerned about a marriage between one of the twins and, say, one of our allied families.”

Hermione thought about this before deciding that he made a good point. “That is very true,” she said. “Fortunately for us, your mother will have to approve any noble marriage that either of them would choose to make. I am sure she has thought of some of these things herself.”

“Probably not the Muggle Riddle child. I don’t remember if I even told her that his wife was pregnant. But the other possibility… yes, either she has already, or she will.”

“I don’t actually think Snape wants to hurt you, either,” Hermione said. “He has never struck me as being very interested in amassing property.”

Tom considered that. His natural inclination was to be suspicious of people, but as he considered Snape’s actions over the years, he found himself agreeing with her.

It was getting cold, so they extinguished their magical fire after that. As they descended from the rooftop, Hermione reflected on how nice it was to talk and scheme freely with him. They shared more now than they had before, she thought. He had kept many of his own plans and doings from her, either out of some misguided idea of “protecting” her or, she supposed, because he had not entirely trusted her. He had certainly _desired_ her in those earlier days, and she did believe he had loved her, but he had not treated her as a partner in many ways. Now, he did. Despite her prior resolution to ask Lady Merope to end the betrothal and then to swear herself to the service of the family, that was not actually Hermione’s first choice for how she wanted her life to go. She had wanted to know love again, to be cherished by the wizard she still loved—had never ceased to love—but after the incident with the basilisk, she had been convinced that Tom cared little about her and that the continued close association with him would eventually cost her her life.

Hermione Granger, studious pupil to some and overbearing show-off to others, was never so glad to be wrong about something.

Once inside the castle, Tom and Hermione hurried down the corridor, their footfalls muted as they darted for Hermione’s bedchamber. They could Apparate, but it would make a loud sound. Hermione drew her breath in sharply as a long shadow appeared at the end of the corridor, near the landing of the stairs. A yellowish glow accompanied it. She gazed ahead; her bedroom was still at the very end of the hall.

Snape and Merope reached the top of the stairs and gazed upon Tom and Hermione, who were notably past Tom’s door and obviously closer to Hermione’s. Snape’s lips thinned, but Merope shook her head at him almost imperceptibly.

“Good night to the both of you,” she said with a nod to the young pair.

They entered their chamber, leaving Tom and Hermione in the hall by themselves. Tom’s eyes were wide as he continued to stare at the spot where they had been.

“All right, Tom,” Hermione muttered, pulling at his arm. “I told you, she knows.”

He gazed at his own bedroom door for a moment, during which time Hermione’s face fell. Then he thought better of it, turned back to her, and continued to the end of the corridor with her.

* * *

For both couples, the next morning was another one of winter sunshine and draftiness mitigated by shared body heat and post-conjugal closeness. Hermione almost did not want to get out of bed, but she had no choice. Untangling herself from him, she stretched and slung her legs over the side of the bed.

He groaned at the loss of warmth but reluctantly followed her. Rubbing his eyes, he grimaced. “Mother and Snape saw us last night.”

“Yes.”

He pulled on his outer robe. “I do not want to be under Snape’s gaze—or that hooked nose of his.”

“Then don’t be cowed by him.”

“I didn’t say I would be _cowed.”_ He seemed vaguely affronted at the mere suggestion. “But defying him… that’s a good idea. If he looks at us with that glare of his, we’ll just glare back at him.”

“Precisely.”

As it turned out, Snape did not pay them much attention at the family dining table that morning. He was too solicitous of Merope, who was feeling very unwell due to pregnancy sickness. It was a condition that potions could aid somewhat, but no one had yet found an elixir that eradicated the symptoms in every witch.

“There has not even been any further experimentation in the subject—at least by Hogwarts Masters or any noble’s chief potionmaker—in about… eighty years,” Snape said, very displeased. Merope had left the room to rest and spare the others the unpleasant sights of heaving.

Tom threw up his hands. “And _what_ happened eighty years ago?” he exclaimed. “It does not surprise me at all that _these_ nobles would not have their potionmakers work on a problem that only affects witches.”

For once, Hermione could not object. “I agree, in fact,” she spoke up. “I do not _know_ this, but I expect that if you investigated the matter further, you would find that there has been little magical research into numerous ‘witches’ problems’ since… that date.”

Tom looked at her in surprise and approval. Under the table, he squeezed her hand.

* * *

Merope was feeling better by mid-morning. She emerged into the family parlor, the very one that she and Severus had shared the night before. Tom and Hermione were in the library.

“Have you found him yet?” Severus asked without prelude.

Merope shook her head. “I don’t know where he could be. It troubles me.”

“That makes two of us,” Severus growled. “I understand why you accepted his oath, but I never thought he was trustworthy.”

“Nor do I, Severus! I have told you before, I agree that he is likely self-interested first and foremost. My brother and father treated his family extremely badly.”

 _“You_ have not, though. He has been here for several months now. He should not be disappearing.”

“He may be in his Animagus form. It’s possible that he has not left the grounds.”

“He still owes you an explanation if he is. There may be good reasons to skulk about as a rat, but they are the sorts of reasons that _you_ should be informed of.”

“Spying,” she supplied.

He nodded.

“I suppose I could release Hermione’s cat,” she mused, smirking at that idea. “He was very determined to root out all the rodents in the castle when he first showed up!”

Severus frowned at that memory. Yes… the animal had indeed. The cat had located rat holes in _his_ private office in Parselhall, in fact, which had astonished him; the walls were supposed to be magically sealed against rodent damage.

 _Ordinary_ rodent damage, at least.

“Merope,” he said urgently, “do you think that Pettigrew could have been in the castle as a rat before?”

“What do you mean?”

Severus explained the chain of thoughts that he had just had. Her face creased in a concerned frown as he mentioned the fact that his office had been charmed to keep out vermin. “But an Animagus is different. He would have magic of his own. Vermin wards are not as strong as wards that can keep out witches and wizards, of course.”

Merope’s face was deeply troubled. “I think… that this idea makes sense,” she said, her brow creased. “And it further supports the idea you had that Pettigrew is an indiscriminate gatherer of information, which he hoards for whatever purpose may someday arise.”

“When he shows his face again, I can question him,” Severus said aggressively.

Merope considered. “Let me think about it. I will first want to hear what he has to say about what he’s doing _today._ If his explanation does not make sense—or if he admits to sneaking about as a rat—then we can pursue it.”

“I think we should pursue it anyway,” he said in a controlled tone, “but your decision is final.”

A sharp knock interrupted their conversation.

“It’s Hermione and I, Mother,” Tom said from outside the door.

“Come in, then,” she said.

The door swung open, and they entered and took their seats next to each other on the same piece of furniture. Both of them were clutching large books. Merope smiled at the sight.

“We were just discussing Pettigrew’s unaccountable absence,” she said to Tom and Hermione.

Tom gripped his wand, and his eyebrows narrowed. “I hope that when he turns up, he is held to account. He may have lived in the wild for years, but he does not _now.”_

Severus regarded the young wizard with approval.

“He will certainly have to answer for himself,” Merope said briskly. “But in the meantime, I believe you had something that you meant to tell me at the breakfast table, before I took ill?”

Tom had intended to mention his idea about the Muggles that he had talked about with Hermione last night, but his mother had had to leave the room before he could. He rested his right elbow on the arm of the sofa and considered his words. The subject could not be one that his mother would enjoy.

“I was thinking about the fact that my Muggle father had a wife who was with child.”

Merope’s eyes widened in surprise. “Tom! You did not tell me that she was with child.”

“I honestly did not think about it,” he said. “I had… other things on my mind that night, after I came home. But she was rather far along.”

“Then the child has been born! Tom! She might not have a home—”

“That is exactly what I was thinking about,” he said. “If the child is a girl, she might need a roof over her head. _They_ might,” he corrected. “Of course, she might not want to live in this particular barony, and the Muggle lord might have to release her….”

“I will certainly make the necessary inquiries,” Merope said, gazing at her son in surprise that he had thought of something like this. “She may have family of her own who took her in, or the child might be a boy, but it’s something to investigate.”

“I just thought that, since _he_ abandoned us to poverty, it wouldn’t be right to do the same thing,” Tom said in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon his lap. “The child is a Muggle, but it’s still related to me.”

Merope nodded. “I will definitely look into this matter.”

Another knock sounded on the door, this one unexpected to all four occupants. “Yes?” Merope said, surprised.

“My lords and ladies,” croaked a house-elf named Fionn, “Lord Regulus Black, heir of the Noble House of Black.”

Tom did not seem wholly shocked by Regulus’s appearance, Hermione noted. She still did not believe that it meant anything when he pointed out the star that was Regulus’s namesake last night, but it was an interesting coincidence, certainly….

The door swung open. The elf bowed low to Merope and made her exit at once, snapping her fingers to close the door behind her and give the lords and ladies their privacy. Regulus was dressed in his heavy black traveling cloak, the one that had a large hood that hid his face—but he had lowered this hood as he entered the room.

“My lord Regulus,” Merope said, surprise still in her voice. “You are most welcome as always. Please, take a seat.”

He swept off his cloak, which he left on a peg on the wall near the door, and sat down in the closest chair to the family that was available.

“Would you care for refreshment?” Severus asked. “There are a couple of bottles of wine in this room, and the elf could bring something else—some ale, for instance—”

“Thank you, but it is a bit early in the day for that,” he said.

“As you like. What brings you here, my lord?” Merope asked.

“A couple of things, my lady,” he replied. “First of all… I wanted to tell all of you in person that I have become concerned about the source in Malfoy Manor.”

Severus’s gaze was fixed upon him immediately. “I was not expecting to hear anything immediately,” he said. “One of the questions I sent by you is complicated, and they are all topics that Malfoy and Lestrange may not discuss frequently—if ever.”

“That’s true,” Regulus said, “but Kreacher, my house-elf, has told me that he cannot make contact with the Malfoy source at all.”

“At all?”

Regulus was grim. “They cannot always meet at the same time, as you know, so they leave coded messages in their dungeon-level meeting room in Castle Draconis for each other. That’s how Kreacher knows when the Malfoy elf has something to report. He has left several coded messages, but they go unanswered. I am starting to fear the worst, frankly.”

“It has been… ten days,” Severus said. “Are you sure you should worry this soon?”

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Regulus said. “The elf has never taken this long to reply to a coded message. A _meeting_ between the two may take some time to set up, but this has never happened before.”

Severus groaned. “I hope you are wrong, Lord Regulus.”

“So do I,” he said.

“Do you think you could subvert another elf in Malfoy Manor?” Hermione suggested. “Surely they have more than one.”

He shook his head. “The one Kreacher talked to was very unusual, Lady Hermione. Most of their kind are utterly devoted to their masters, even in the face of abuse. We got lucky with this one.”

“Let’s hope that there is just a delay,” Merope said.

“It is possible, but I would not expect it, my lady.” He sighed. “Now… the other reason I am here. I understand that I owe you congratulations”—he managed a smile for Severus and Merope.

“It is early yet, but I thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course, this raises the stakes, as you know far better than I.”

“We do indeed.”

“I do not know—have you mentioned my offer to Lord Thomas?”

Merope glanced quickly at Tom, then back at Regulus. “I’m afraid not, my lord. We have been busy indeed since you last visited.”

Tom raised his eyebrows at her. “What does he mean, Mother?”

“I’ll let him explain,” she said. “And Tom, I did mean to tell you myself, but the subject would have immediately distracted us from other matters that we needed to talk about more urgently.”

Tom gazed at her for a moment longer before deciding to accept this. He turned to Regulus inquiringly.

“My estranged brother, Sirius, is going to marry soon,” Regulus began.

Hermione nodded. “His godson is a friend of… ours.” To her delight, Tom did not dispute it even in a way that would be apparent only to her.

“So you know that already,” Regulus said. “Good. What I mentioned to Lady Riddle last summer was contingent on the courtship ending in marriage, and since it will, we can move ahead. My lord father, who is now the head of the House of Black after my grandfather’s murder, required some persuading… but he is willing to offer a formal alliance with the House of Black. I myself am already allied with you, of course, but this would be the House itself. Both of our families are ancient and magically powerful. Parseltongue and Divination run in your line; shape-changing runs in mine. An alliance between the Serpent and the Dog might strike fear even into the Malfoys and Lestranges.”

This felt rehearsed to all four of them; Regulus’s language was grandiose, but it also seemed sincere.

“My parents would likely prefer an alliance between one of my brother’s future children and one of the twins that your ladyship expects,” he continued, “but if they are not going to be the immediate heirs of your line, then that consideration takes precedence.”

Hermione understood at once. “Lord Regulus, are you talking about an alliance between Sirius’s future child and Tom’s and mine?”

He nodded. “I mean no offense to you, but you must know what my parents think about blood purity. However, they are willing to set that aside in the service of getting the Malfoys and Lestranges out of power, now that they have murdered my grandfather.”

Tom spoke up. “Lord Regulus, what do you think are your parents’ intentions after that? If we make this alliance, and Malfoy and his supporters are removed, what does your lord father intend?”

Regulus studied Tom, perfectly aware of what he was truly asking. “My father would like to see the old Wizengamot reinstated,” he said. “After that… the body itself should choose the high lord—or lady. That was traditional.”

“Indeed,” Tom said. “It is important that we restore the old traditions that served the magical community so well, not replace one lord who is unanswerable to the rest of the wizarding nobility with another.” His words were calculated and his tone hard.

“I understand you _very_ well, Lord Thomas,” Regulus said.

Merope spoke up. “You must have more details about this proposal to offer to us, Lord Regulus,” she said, trying to be conciliatory. “What does your family expect—or desire?”

“What we expect is that the alliance will be with your son’s heir, my lady.” He gazed pointedly at Tom. “If that’s not proof of my family’s respect for yours, I do not know what would be.”

Tom considered that, also thinking of the discussion he’d had with Hermione the night before. If their heir married a Black, that would unquestionably prevent the Snape twins from considering themselves as realistic rivals. _And it also does mean what Regulus said it means,_ he thought. _If they want an alliance with our heir, it very well could mean that Orion isn’t counting on walking into the high lordship. He must realize that we may want it, since he specifically wants this alliance with the heir rather than another child._

“Our heirs are not always based on birth order,” Merope pointed out.

He smiled; he had personal knowledge of _that._ “Of course. I would not have a contract that named a specific child of your son’s until that was settled.”

Hermione spoke up. “If your brother has more than one child of the opposite sex to our eventual heir, I would like our child to have a choice.”

Regulus considered that before nodding. “That is reasonable. And if the children—his and yours—are all of the same sex, we’ll renegotiate the contract at that time.”

Hermione was surprised that Tom was so readily assenting to this. She would have expected him to object strenuously to choosing the future of a child of his, since he was so reluctant to accept _her_ at the very beginning of their relationship. But she remembered their discussion from the night before. This proposition was likely a relief to him. The House of Black was a great wizarding noble house, after all. _And these children do not exist yet—not even to the extent that Merope’s twins do,_ she thought. _It is very abstract now. Tom is thinking strategically, first and foremost._

“I have to ask,” Severus said, a wry gleam in his black eyes, “does Sirius know that you are making these plans for his family? Does he realize that your father intends to forcibly pull him back into the House of Black?” He sounded very much as if he knew the answer.

Regulus grinned back. “He will learn at the proper time. Frankly, my brother needs to make a stand. He has had some sort of dispute with his friend Potter—which I think is a very good thing; Potter is a deplorable influence—and I think the time has come for him to return to his family and do his part in the war that we all know is coming.”


	41. Secrets Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers! With this chapter, things pick back up. Several people find out about some things that have been kept hidden from them for a while. I am also placing a truly major card on the table, though in a very brief mention.
> 
> There is another warning for hard misogyny in this chapter.

After Regulus’s departure, Hermione could not help but chide Tom teasingly. “I am very surprised that you consented to that,” she said, smirking at him. “I seem to recollect that you were not too enthusiastic about _our_ betrothal when it was first made.”

Tom gazed at her. “Well, this is very different. Presumably, our children would grow up knowing Sirius Black’s children. They will be friends. I would not have it otherwise, if this is going to happen,” he added. He shifted his gaze to Merope. “Our parents made the contract to get you into Hogwarts and to secure spouses for two people who, let’s face it, would not have been considered by anyone who was both magical and noble. Obviously we would _now—”_

 _“You_ would,” she corrected. “I still would not.”

He looked pained at that representation but did not dispute its truth. “Perhaps,” he admitted, “but even so, it would be because of the political upheaval that our betrothal caused. Malfoy and his allies are getting worse, but others, like the Blacks, are moderating some of their views because our family has made it acceptable for nobles not to be pureblood.”

“You are half-blood. That could have happened anyway, simply due to your blood.”

“Maybe, but I really think it is because of you.” He gazed at her brown eyes. “If we had never met, perhaps I would have eventually married a pureblood… but I think in that case, my blood would have remained an ‘aberration’ to people’s thinking, something that happened only once before the pattern reverted to its old form. With you in the family—and Snape,” he acknowledged somewhat grudgingly—“we have changed the pattern.”

Hermione nestled close to him, satisfied with his reasoning. “That is true. Obviously, this family—your mother”—she glanced respectfully at Merope—“has earned the respect of magical noble peers who are capable of being reasonable. It’s unfortunate that that does not include the two families who control everything.”

“It will someday soon.” He squeezed her hand and gazed at her meaningfully.

Merope gazed serenely at them. “Lord Regulus bestows quite an honor,” she said. “I admit I am concerned about the fact that his brother does not know of his plans, though. If his brother is getting married, he will have a household of his own and may have the means of refusing his family’s demands.”

“I actually have my doubts about that,” said Severus. A malicious light gleamed in his black eyes. “Black has lived with his friend Potter for years, living off Potter’s charity, eating his food, taking up space in their home. It’s because he grew up as a noble and never bothered to excel in any kind of magic that could be used for practical ends, just showy things. He has not the skills to earn his own money. He is just the typical sort of useless spoiled noble who never bothered with such things.” Contempt dripped from his words.

“But his bride-to-be— _she_ was not a noble, and I’m told that she has a child.”

“That is true,” Severus said, “but she was widowed only a year ago, apparently. She certainly did not waste any time.”

“If you are implying that she is marrying him only for security, why would she take on a man who was ‘useless,’ another mouth to feed?” Merope challenged.

Tom leaned back in his seat, enjoying his mother and stepfather's debate. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Perhaps… it is not just for security,” Severus grudgingly admitted. “There may be real affection in the case. In fact… there must be, since Black _could_ have just stayed with Potter. He started to court this witch long before he fell out with Potter. Yes, it must be that. In any case, I do not believe that he is in much of a position to refuse Regulus and their parents. Will he storm and rage? Probably. I know the man. But he’ll do it, in the end.” He scowled at Tom and Hermione. “Much joy may you have of the connection. Better your child than mine.”

“Severus,” Merope scolded.

He looked ashamed for a moment. “I… apologize,” he grated. “Perhaps Black would be less hostile to you, Tom, because of the friendship with his godson. For your future family’s sake, I hope so.”

Tom did not reply. He merely squeezed Hermione’s hand again.

* * *

Pettigrew did not show his face until well after sunset. The four members of the family were in the library when the house-elf Fionn entered the room and gingerly, almost apologetically, explained to her mistress what had just happened.

“He says that he knows Mistress will want to speak to him,” the elf said. “Fionn told him to wait in the great hall.”

Snape rose from his chair, reaching for his wand, his face stormy. “She is not the only one who will want to speak to him,” he growled.

Merope put a hand on his forearm and gave him a pointed look. “I will let you question him if he does not explain himself to me.”

Tom and Hermione peeked around the corner of the nearest bookcases. “We should be there,” he said.

Merope nodded. Stepping forward, she led the way as the rest of her family followed behind her. When they reached the great hall, Peter Pettigrew—who was guarded by another house-elf and looked visibly nervous—paled slightly at the sight of the entire family’s approach.

“Pettigrew,” Merope said, holding her wand authoritatively but not—yet—threateningly. “You know already that you need to account for your absence today.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, looking at the hem of her robes.

“Well, then?” she said. “I insist upon knowing where you have been today, whom—if anyone—you spoke with, and _why.”_ She stared evenly at him. “And look us in the face. If we are not satisfied with your answers, I will authorize Lord Severus to give you truth serum.”

Pettigrew’s eyes widened at that as he looked her in the eye. “Of course, my lady… just wanted to show respect by keeping my gaze low….”

“That is duly noted, but you are a sworn vassal of mine and I am questioning you. It is important that you look us in the eye while you answer our questions.” She quickly gave Tom a meaningful look. An expression of surprise came over his handsome face, but he understood at once what she wanted him to do. So did Hermione.

“Where have you been all day, Pettigrew?” Merope asked again.

He almost averted his gaze again, but he managed to stop himself. Tom’s dark-eyed glare was fixed upon the twitchy, almost ratlike face. “I was not in the castle, but I did not leave the grounds of Hangleton,” he said. “I took my rat form.”

Tom gave his mother a quick, almost imperceptible nod.

“And why did you do this?” Merope pressed.

He wrung his hands. “I had a personal letter—from Amycus Carrow.”

That startled everyone. Somewhat emboldened by the reaction, Pettigrew continued with more courage in his words. “I still have it, if you want to see it. He _threatened_ us. He thinks he can still come into this fief and even enter the castle.”

“He cannot enter the castle,” Merope said. “I have made certain of that. There is some magical protection along the borders of this fief, but naturally it has to be weaker to allow communication, travel, and trade. But if our enemies are now starting to threaten the town, I will have to put up more wards.”

“So, my lady, I was in the village as a rat to try to find out if Carrow had any accomplices among the Muggles.”

Tom studied him for a moment before nodding at his mother.

“You should have presented your idea to me,” Merope said. “I would have authorized it. Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to worry your ladyship.”

Tom raised his eyebrows skeptically at that. Merope noticed, and in a much sharper voice, she replied, “I do not believe that, Pettigrew. You _know_ your duty is to ‘worry me’ with important intelligence if you receive any. _Why_ did you not tell me what you were going to do?”

Pettigrew mumbled something in which the only discernible word was “Carrow.”

“Speak up.”

He looked up, his ratlike face pained and anxious. “Carrow threatened me personally,” he whined. “I did spy on the Muggles, but Carrow wanted me to find out if any of them were disgruntled with your ladyship… in order to _recruit_ them.”

Tom was visibly surprised, but he could tell that the assertion was true.

“And _why,”_ Severus said roughly, his long black sleeves riding up his arms as he pointed his wand, “did Carrow think that you might do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” he whined.

“I think you do. I think you have passed information to Carrow’s fine ‘friends’ before.” He glared at Pettigrew. “You _did_ tell Malfoy that I poisoned Morfin Gaunt, didn’t you?”

“No!”

Tom’s eyebrows narrowed. “Yes, you did,” he cut in.

Pettigrew shrank back, eyes wide open. “You—you’re a—”

“A Legilimens, yes,” Tom supplied, his words hard. “And that means that you had better tell the truth.”

“Why did you do it, Pettigrew?” Merope asked. Her voice was cold. “I am… _prepared…_ to forgive you for lying to us, but you must explain why you have done any work for Malfoy and his allies, and never do it again, and in the future, inform me of your intentions _in advance._ We can protect you, but you have to provide a good reason for us to do it.”

Pettigrew’s face was desperate. “Carrow found me,” he said. “He had already sworn himself to Lord Lestrange, and he threatened me with his high lord unless I told him something ‘useful.’ That was the most ‘useful’ thing I knew.”

“Does Carrow know that you are an Animagus?”

“I don’t think so.”

Severus glared harshly at him. “Why are you so afraid of Carrow? What does he know about you, Pettigrew?”

“I think he knows that… I was at Godric’s Hollow,” he said, unwilling to meet Snape’s eyes as he referred to that town. The name had such potency, such significance, for everyone present now. “He has never said it openly, but I think he knows it.”

That was a stumper for everyone. Blackmail could indeed explain why the wizard would have been bullied into telling Malfoy something compromising, especially since the blackmail had occurred at a time when Pettigrew was unprotected. And yet… Tom still felt some disquiet, as if something big and important was still unexplained. He did not find anything in the man’s surface thoughts that revealed it as a lie, though. _I wish I could do deeper Legilimency,_ he thought with a pang. _This is very important._

Finally Merope spoke. “As I said, Pettigrew, we have the ability to protect you. Severus was at Godric’s Hollow too, as you well know, and _he_ is safe—because he has proven himself loyal and worthy of my trust. If you receive any further communications from Carrow—or anyone allied with him—you must tell me or Severus as soon as possible.”

He nodded contritely.

“One final question. _Did_ you find any villagers who either were or might be willing to become accomplices with Lestrange?”

“No, your ladyship.”

Tom gave his mother a final nod, no longer bothering to be discreet.

* * *

“I have changed my mind about one thing,” Merope said after Pettigrew had been escorted out of the castle to his own family manor house. “It has to do with your idea about your Muggle half-sibling, Tom.”

Tom glanced up curiously at her.

“I am not going to invite them to live in Hangleton if there is any discontent or reluctance on Lady Cecilia’s part,” she said. “If they are in need of support, I will send gold to them. After this discussion, I will not run the risk of having a disgruntled Muggle villager within the fief, especially an important one, the widow of a knight with a child who is related to my heir. I will permit them to live here only if she is completely satisfied and holds no resentment over her husband’s death.”

Tom gazed at his mother in utter shock, astonished at the hardness of her words.

She looked back at him sadly. “In times like these, compassion to outsiders must be tempered with sense and caution, Tom,” she said.

He nodded. “I understand.”

“We should trust _each other,_ though,” she said pointedly, looking at Hermione and then Tom.

He took the point and wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist, pulling her close.

* * *

Late that night in bed, Severus and Merope continued to discuss what had happened.

“He has given no reason for us to trust him,” Severus said. “Personally, I think a stay in the dungeons is what he deserves at this point.”

Merope sighed. “That may be, but it would be entirely counterproductive to building that trust. I think his problem is that he is fundamentally not a brave man.”

“Cowardice is a problem indeed.”

“He has had his trust betrayed repeatedly,” she mused. “My father and brother did it in the vilest of ways… Carrow, his fellow vassal at one point, became a traitor and then blackmailed him… presumably, his friends Potter and Black no longer associate with him…. Severus, I think that we have two choices before us. We can either lock him up—with the assumption that it must be for the rest of his life, or at a minimum, until the end of the coming war—or we can attempt to show him that he can trust someone at last. I prefer the latter.”

Severus gazed ahead into the darkness. “You did not seem that eager to give the Muggle Riddles a chance. Do you think that you’re giving him the benefit of a doubt because he can do magic?”

Merope was startled at that, but she seriously considered it. “You may be right,” she admitted. “I _will_ ask Lady Cecilia if she wants to live here, but I will not pressure her if she does not. Someone of her stature would be a leader to the Muggles and could probably convince them readily to turn against Tom as a kinslayer if she resents being widowed. As for Pettigrew… he will have one more chance. If he disobeys me, goes missing of his own accord, or does something else behind my back, he _will_ have a stay in the dungeons.”

* * *

The following day, Tom and Hermione had to return to Hogwarts. As Tom gazed at Hermione, he felt a rush of affection. This was the first time in two years that he was making this journey with her truly by his side. They could Apparate separately now, but when he turned to her with a hand extended, she understood at once. Smiling at him, she took his hand.

They appeared in the Hogwarts courtyard out of breath and dizzy, as was typical, and instinctively clutched each other around the waist for mutual support. Although Hermione was once again very familiar with his touch, and in far more intimate circumstances than this, it still made her heart beat faster. She took a step forward and pressed herself against him, feeling his arms around her at once.

It was very cold, so they did not remain in the outdoor courtyard for too long. They separated and walked into the castle, hand-in-hand, completely unconcerned about what anyone might think of it. They continued to hold hands as they walked down to the dungeon level and into the Slytherin common room.

Tom’s male friends were already there. When the young couple entered the common room, their heads all turned, but no one dared comment. Hermione felt a spark of defiance as she passed by the boys, holding Tom’s hand possessively. Let them look! They had no right to interfere. They never had.

Keeping her hand firmly linked with his, Tom walked over to the window and gazed out into the dark water of the lake. His black eyebrows narrowed and his mouth curled asymmetrically as he gazed out. His pensive expression was, in that moment, so appealing to Hermione that she could not stop herself. She turned to him and leaned upward, cupping his cheek with one hand. His eyes widened, but he did not try to stop her as she lunged for his lips. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and deepened the kiss that she had begun.

Her eyes fluttered closed as they stood by the window, wrapped tightly together. The fingers of one of his hands tangled in her hair, caressing her in the sensitive spot behind her ear. She pressed herself against him below the waist as well, making his eyes fly open in surprise at her boldness. In that moment, she bit his lip. He had liked that very much the time that they had had that angry, heated kiss. He liked it even more now, she thought smugly as he returned the bite. It hurt slightly, but somehow the pain was not actually painful. Instead, they were marking each other as _theirs._

At last, they broke the kiss and relaxed their grip on each other, though they stayed in the embrace. She smirked at him, meeting his gaze with her own.

The boys were staring in various states of surprise, greed—Tom noted this on Avery’s face and resolved to have a word with him about it—or disapproval. Fawley visibly frowned.

Tom noticed as well and glared back defiantly at him. “Is there a problem, Edgar?”

Fawley shook his head quickly—too quickly.

Tom looked around the common room. No one else was present. Nevertheless keeping his voice low but menacing, he drew closer to the circle of five boys, his hand firmly around Hermione’s waist. “I need to make one point very clear to everyone,” he said. He gazed at Hermione, then back at them. “If any of you have been hoping that Lady Hermione and I would not actually wed, or that if we did, it would be a loveless marriage, disabuse yourself of that idea _now._ We will, and furthermore, it is because we both _want_ to.” He glared at them. “Some of you have implied in the past that you think I should break my vows to her. Theodore, I recall that you in particular said this two years ago.”

Nott glanced down uncomfortably.

“I have already said that I think it’s despicable. Better to abjure a vow entirely than do that. You would not have dared to suggest it were I betrothed to any other witch. Our enemies may treat their wives as dirt under their feet, but I won’t have it among my own allies. Regard for witches, like our ancestors, is one thing that must set us apart. You will treat her with the respect she is due. Your parents have made formal, magically binding alliances with my mother, knowing perfectly well that Hermione will be part of the family. You had better follow their lead. We will marry, and we will continue to be faithful to each other, and anyone who objects to this is no better than the ones we seek to defeat. Do I make myself clear?”

The five boys nodded.

Tom glanced harshly at Avery. “Cormac,” he said to the boy, “another thing I won’t tolerate is that slimy look that you were giving us.”

The young man flushed deeply and gazed at the floor.

“She is _mine,”_ Tom growled, tightening his grip on her waist. “Whatever thoughts you may have, you will keep them to yourself—or better yet, banish them entirely. Hermione is not some Muggle whore flaunting her wares for you to ogle. I mean it—I will not put up with any form of disrespect for her.”

“Of course,” Marcus Flint assured him. “I may be speaking only for myself, but I think I got used to the idea of… someone like her… among our ranks a long time ago.”

Rob Wilkes nodded quickly and firmly. He was still eager to maintain his position with Tom after the debacle of his father’s betrayal. “I did too. You speak for me as well.” He shot a disdainful glance at Fawley and another at Nott. “It’s uncommon for a noble betrothal to be broken, after all. I assumed yours would not be, and I got used to the idea.” He gave Hermione a courteous nod.

“I advise the rest of you to follow their lead,” Tom said coolly to the other three. He released Hermione’s waist and took her by the hand again. “Hermione may wish to be part of our meetings. If she does, you will hear her ideas and consider them as you would any other.”

Hermione gave him a look of surprise as he escorted her to the other side of the common room for some privacy. “The meetings?” she repeated.

“If you want to come.”

“I will think about it,” she said. “I admit I have been curious for a long time.”

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

Rodolphus Lestrange took the scroll off the owl’s leg and popped the seal, unrolling the parchment. As he read the letter, his already unattractive face twisted in outrage that made him look as ghastly as his overlord.

He set the letter down on the nearest table and attempted to control his thoughts. This was—perhaps not _surprising,_ if he thought about it properly, but certainly inconvenient and embarrassing.

Armand Malfoy looked up from his own letters and finally noticed the rage that suffused Lestrange’s face. “What is the matter?” he asked, a curl of amusement in his lips. He really was feeling better, more himself, more intelligent and alert since that traitorous elf had killed itself. Perhaps the little bastard had been poisoning him, undermining the effects of his special “tonic” when it was not immediately in his system. It was possible. At least none of the others were plotting against him.

Lestrange took a deep breath. “I have a problem… my lord.” He glared at the offending note. “It seems that I have my answer as to who murdered my loyal vassal Scabior a year ago, and why.”

“Who sent that to you?”

 _“Wormtail,”_ he said pointedly. “He says that Carrow can back him up. I will have some questions for Carrow as to why he kept this from me, if so. Evidently he heard Snape and Lady Riddle mentioning the subject. He informed me that they believe my _wife_ did the deed.”

Malfoy set down his flagon in surprise. “Lady Bellatrix? Why? How dare she?”

“How dare she, indeed, my lord!” He clutched the armrests of his seat to avoid rising without his lord’s leave. “If they are to be believed, she did it because he seduced my daughter, got her with child, and the Mudblood made the potion for her to abort it and then _presumed_ to write to my wife about it!”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared in outrage. “The Mudblood made a potion to kill a magical child that would have been pureblood, and your daughter _took_ it? And then she dared to write to your wife, a pureblood noblewoman, who _acted_ on the Mudblood’s words?”

“So it seems.” Lestrange was furious enough to rip a hole in the upholstery if it had been his own furniture.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed red momentarily. “This is exactly why we have to have the kind of laws that we have made! Witches apparently can’t be trusted to hold to _any_ principles. It is the weakness of their sex. I would have assumed that your wife, of all people, would respect her own blood enough to teach her daughter properly and punish her if she allowed a Mudblood to talk her into killing a future pureblood child. Clearly, I was wrong. _None_ of them can be trusted… at least, none who have this barbarous country’s blood of rebellion flowing in their veins.” He glared at the fire. “Your wife’s mother was a Rosier, but her father was a Black. The Blacks are a family of traitors, I believe. ‘House of the Dog,’ indeed. This country has a history of allowing witches to do things like this. Their ‘triple goddesses’ and such—even if they are not worshiped anymore, clearly, three witches conspiring together can lead to nothing good! Your wife and daughter—and a filthy Mudblood!”

“You are right, my lord,” Lestrange growled. “What can I do?”

“You must send her out of your castle,” he replied immediately. “She currently administers it in your name.”

“She does!” he exclaimed, outrage and anger flooding him anew. “What a trick she played on me!”

“I personally think you should annul the marriage as well.”

“Black married us,” he scowled. “He marries everyone with magic… and I doubt he will do that. He doesn’t like annulments.”

“Protecting deceitful women, just like the rest of his blood, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Lestrange agreed, “but other than killing him—and that would be a mistake, since we would have no one else in the church with that authority—what can be done? I could divorce her in civil law, I suppose… and the girl—my _daughter”_ —he uttered the word with disgust, as if it pained him to say it now—“must be sent out with her. How dare she! Even if she preferred to marry your great-grandson, what presumption to expect that she still had the right to after that!”

“Their betrothal obviously must come to an end, now that we know she has been dirtied,” Malfoy declared. “I will order Lucius to break it off. Draco deserves better.”

Although Malfoy was speaking of Lestrange’s daughter, Lestrange did not defend her or even feel insulted on her behalf. He agreed with every word his lord was saying.

“That elf,” Malfoy suddenly said, his eyes gleaming unnaturally again for a brief instant. “I wonder now if it was conspiring with Bellatrix. I am sure that she can go to Castle Draconis. I wonder if that is what was happening.”

“It could have been,” Lestrange said. “It could have.” He glared malevolently into the flames as he planned out what he would do.

* * *

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

Lucius Malfoy roared in fury at the demand from his grandfather. Standing aside, Narcissa observed him dispassionately. Evidently, Lord Malfoy’s source of information did not know anything about _her_ involvement in Scabior’s murder. She did not think Lucius would care except for the fact that she had concealed that fact from him for so long, but that in itself was something that she did not want him to know.

“What a _vile_ man your sister’s husband is,” Lucius seethed. “His daughter is _raped_ and he takes the rapist’s side?”

“Rodolphus Lestrange himself is a rapist, according to Bella. Well,” she amended, “according to Bella’s _accounts._ He forces himself on the Muggles of their village. Bella dislikes it because he is breaking their marriage vows, not because it is rape. But it is. At least she sided with her own daughter.”

Lucius gave a snarl of disgust. “And my grandfather presumes to tell me what to do with my son! ‘I am making inquiries of Lord and Lady Parkinson regarding the contract they have with the Rosier family, and if the girl has been deflowered,’” he quoted from the letter. “Vulgar and presumptuous! Young Rosier is Draco’s friend and cousin. That alliance would be tested if his fiancée were torn away from him in that manner. My grandfather seems to think that he can dictate the marital plans of anyone he wants, even if they have existing arrangements.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I think Lady Riddle is a blood-traitor, but I have to say, reluctantly, that this must have begun with her and her son. My grandfather got the idea that he could interfere with their contract with the Mudblood girl, and then that he could order Lady Riddle to marry the wizard of his choosing. Of course he would not stop with them.”

Narcissa smiled tightly. Although she agreed with Lucius in principle, she had no problem with the dissolution of Draco’s betrothal. It was what she had wanted as soon as she learned of what had happened to Adelaide Lestrange. She chose her words carefully. “Lestrange will try to have Bella executed, and Adelaide will certainly be turned out. We must offer them shelter, but secretly.”

“Yes,” Lucius agreed. “We must. I will write to her at once.” He cordially disliked Bellatrix Lestrange, but she was _family,_ and it was his duty to offer her protection and shelter in her time of need.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Bellatrix had already flown by the time that Lestrange showed up at the gate. It was infuriating, because he had intended to do far more to her than remove her from the castle and divorce her, but so it was. At least he now had a valid case based on disobedience and abandonment. He immediately found Amycus Carrow.

“I am told,” he said through clenched teeth, his wand pointing at the man’s heart, “that you already knew the truth and concealed it from me.”

 _Pettigrew,_ Carrow thought immediately. Pettigrew must have overheard that pack of blood-traitors he served talking about it. This must have been his pathetic idea of petty revenge for the times that Carrow had threatened him. _If I survive this, I will pay him back in kind,_ Carrow vowed.

“The half-blood Riddle claimed it when I was torturing him, my lord,” he said, deciding to hazard part of the truth. It was easier to tell part of the truth than to fabricate a complete lie. “I did not believe him. I was wrong—the lady’s departure proves that—and I apologize.”

“Nonetheless, you were wrong. You should have told me. _Crucio!”_

Carrow fell to the hard stone floor, bruising as he did, and writhed in pain as Lestrange maintained the curse. He was in fact thinking of his wife, daughter, and the foul-blooded pair of Riddle and Granger, but Carrow suffered for the vicious thoughts his lord had of these others.

At last Lestrange had had enough—or else he simply could not maintain the curse any longer. He lifted his wand and gazed down at the man who was now curled up on the floor. “I think that punishment will suffice,” he said loftily. “Get up, Carrow.”

Gingerly Carrow rose to his feet. His entire body ached.

“If you will swear henceforth to be loyal, and to tell me everything you hear that I need to know, I will make you the regent of this fief in my absence as I serve his high lordship.”

Carrow’s eyes widened in surprise. Instantly he fell to one knee. “I swear, my lord.”

“I accept your oath,” Lestrange said. “Summon your sister. I will not have another English-blooded witch acting as lady of this castle unless she is aware of one thing in particular. She must be informed that she is to obey you—and _why.”_

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Although no one except the two involved could _prove_ that the betrothal of Draco Malfoy and Adelaide Lestrange was dissolved, and they certainly were not talking about it, everyone in Slytherin House knew it.

Hermione observed her onetime rival with pity. When the morning owl post had arrived, Adelaide had cried out in shock and horror at her letters. She had instantly left the breakfast table. Although Hermione no longer shared any magical subjects with her, she heard from Harry—who did share a couple—that she was barely aware in the schoolroom. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her entire air was one of a frightened mouse.

Draco Malfoy, who she would have assumed would be gloating—and Tom had confirmed to her that he also had seen Draco’s furtive attentions to Astoria Greengrass—was curiously silent about the entire business. He did not treat Adelaide with affection, but he did, finally, show her some subdued, aloof respect. It was almost as if his father had given him an order to keep his mouth shut, for some other reason.

Hermione talked about it with Tom that evening, and they concluded that they had probably correctly guessed what that reason was.

“Draco’s parents are probably sheltering Adelaide’s mother,” Hermione said.

Tom nodded. “Very likely. I wonder how long they can do it. It’s an obvious guess for Lestrange or Armand Malfoy to make, especially if they already distrust Lord Lucius. There are magical ways of hiding someone, though. Perhaps they are doing that.”

“Perhaps so.”

They lapsed into silence. Hermione realized that her hand had been resting on Tom’s leg. She lifted it, noticing at once that he seemed both to miss the contact and to be vaguely relieved. That was… interesting. A smirk formed on her face as she put her hand back on his thigh.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to take you to our old room,” he murmured under his breath, staring straight ahead.

His “threat,” and the seductive, assertive tone in which he spoke it, sent a thrill of desire up and down Hermione’s body. Her smirk broadened as she trailed her fingers up his thigh.

“All right, you asked for it,” he said, rising from his seat, pulling her up with him.

He was pointedly, defiantly ignoring the looks that the few others present in the room gave them. Harry Potter gaped at them as they walked toward the door of the common room together, obviously fully aware of—if not _where_ they were going, then _why._ Two of Tom’s friends stared too, though only for a moment. They might have had to force themselves to look away, but they did manage it. Pleased, Tom opened the door and stepped out with her, closing it behind them.

Hermione reached for him and, on tiptoe, planted a quick but intense kiss on his mouth. They drew away and gazed at each other, breathless and eager.

“Have you been making the potion?” he asked as they hurried down the corridor together.

“I have. I don’t suppose it matters nearly as much as it used to… but it would be risky and dangerous if I conceived while I’m still at Hogwarts.”

“It would,” he said. They climbed the steps that led to the ground floor, where the small room they had used before was. “We have plenty of time to start our family.”

They hurried down the hall and reached the familiar room. Tom unlocked and opened the door. This was the first time they had been in it together in over two years, Hermione thought. It looked the same. Tom locked the door behind him and tested the room to be sure that no one else was hiding inside, while she transfigured a pillow into a comfortable mattress.

Hermione shed her outer robes quickly, though she kept her eyes on Tom as he removed his. They fell to the floor in a shimmer of fine, rich linen. Garbed only in their inside robes and underclothes, they tumbled onto the mattress, clutching each other as they kissed deeply. Her hands explored his body through the thinner fabric of his inside robe. Although they had certainly been intimate at Parselhall on several nights since their reconciliation, this was the first time that they had done it in full candlelight. It was dark outside, but the room was very well lit. His body was more mature now, she thought as she gently tugged off his robe. She had not seen any other man unclothed, but somehow, instinctively, she knew that this was what a grown man’s body should look like.

 _He is seventeen now,_ she thought. _He is a man in wizarding terms._ His birthday had been quite a happy one. She had given him a present of a personal journal in which to write.

Tom was having somewhat similar thoughts as he undressed Hermione. Her physical development had basically completed in her fourteenth year, so she looked more or less as he had remembered, but there were still subtle differences. She had filled out a bit more, he thought. He pulled her robe over her head and cast it aside into the pile of clothing that they had already made. Immediately his dark eyes fixed upon her body, her perfect breasts and hips, her hourglass form. As his gaze raked over her lower belly, he imagined his child—their child—growing there. _Someday,_ he thought, pulling her close. _Maybe six months. Someday._

Together they pulled each other down onto the mattress. She closed her eyes in bliss and allowed him to spread her legs. He positioned himself between them as he continued to minister to her, leaving light but sensual kisses from her lips down the side of her neck, her chest, her belly, her hips—

She clenched her legs around his waist as he entered her. Her eyes rolled back and a breathy gasp escaped her mouth as they began to move. Her hands clutched at his midnight black hair and tugged handfuls, making him cry out, but the pain mixed deliciously with the pleasure that he was feeling at the awareness that it was _her_ touch, _her_ hands—

They climaxed together, Hermione involuntarily lifting her head off the pillow to press her cheek against the spot where his neck met his collarbone. They clung to each other as if their lives depended on it. Finally, the release dissipated itself, leaving them tired and satisfied.

“Imbolc is in less than a month,” he said quietly. “We should celebrate all the old holidays together now.”

“An act of defiance?” she asked, smiling.

He nodded, a smirk forming on his face. “Defiance of him, dedication to the world we lost but can have again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: I've realized that the Pettigrew-Carrow-Lestrange-Malfoy information loop, and who knew what when, could be confusing, so this note is to clarify it (no change to story text anywhere).
> 
> As Pettigrew says (and Tom confirms), Carrow blackmailed him into telling Malfoy about Morfin Gaunt's poisoning (chapter 29), right before he resurfaced. Yes, this does imply that Carrow knew that "Wormtail the spy" was Pettigrew and concealed it from Lestrange and Malfoy, since Malfoy only figured out Wormtail's identity in ch. 40. However, Carrow is a traitor and oathbreaker, has kept information from his new lord before, and got punished for it in this chapter. He'd conceal things to suit his own purposes.
> 
> There are two big unanswered questions about Carrow's blackmail of Pettigrew. What _else_ does Carrow know about the failed revolt, and exactly whom is Pettigrew afraid of his Godric's Hollow-related activities being exposed to?


	42. Summer Is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more to everyone! Another major plot reveal in this chapter. I originally meant for this to come later, but I think it needs to come out now. The tension is ramping up.

_Malfoy Manor._

“I would have supposed that _she_ was at Lucius’s home,” Armand Malfoy opined. “I am surprised.”

Rodolphus Lestrange nodded. “It is possible that they have rooms that are magically concealed, though.”

“If Lucius cast wards for such rooms, I should be able to see them. He is of my blood.”

“It might have been Lady Narcissa, if this really did happen,” Lestrange said sourly. _“She_ is a Black.”

That suggestion visibly irritated Malfoy. “Lucius better not have delegated that kind of magical power to her, a witch who is not even of his own blood! That castle was meant to be his. He is the one who came to its defense sixteen and a half years ago when we learned of the treasonous plot! And it was the first English holding to fall to us. For him to grant warding power to an English-blooded _witch….”_ He trailed off darkly.

“Bellatrix could also be with her father, Cygnus Black. He is a reclusive sort.”

“Yes, she could,” Malfoy agreed. “That is a good point. I want you to investigate that idea, Rodolphus. At once.”

Lestrange was startled at the abruptness of the order. “My lord? Are you going to be all right in my absence? Your tonic—”

Malfoy dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “I have found that I need less of it, less often, since that elf died. I think it was poisoning me, negating the effects of the tonic. My mind feels sharper, too.” He smiled menacingly.

“I am glad of this, my lord,” Lestrange said obsequiously, “though your mind has always been sharp—”

“Don’t be a fool, Rodolphus,” Malfoy snapped. “Your loyalty is noted, but you sound like a fool. I was slipping. You and I both know it, and now that the traitor elf is dead, I feel much better. I will be quite all right. See to Cygnus Black.”

Lestrange bowed. “As you wish. Shall I go alone? If she _is_ there, I would be outnumbered.”

Malfoy considered that. “I will send Rosier and Selwyn with you.”

Lestrange raised his eyebrows. “Rosier, my lord? Bellatrix’s mother is Lord Rosier’s sister.”

“Rosier owes me! He refused the proposed alliance with the Parkinson girl. He claims that his grandson is a very close friend of Draco and that breaking the betrothal to give her to Draco would create discord. They are only second cousins! But he is adamant that it must not be done, so I think he should have to deal with his sister Druella’s offspring. He will learn that gainsaying my will has unpleasant personal consequences.” He peered at Lestrange. “Selwyn is my sworn man. Despite his family name, he has adopted our customs entirely. He will help you keep Rosier in line, but you are in charge of the operation. I will make sure that they know that.”

* * *

Rodolphus Lestrange pulled his cloak close as he, Selwyn, and Lord Rosier stormed away from Lord Cygnus and Lady Druella Black’s secluded manor deep in the hills.

“It _has_ to be Lucius and Narcissa who are sheltering the bitch,” Lestrange swore to his companions.

Lord Rosier nodded. “I think you are right, my lord. If I may say so, I am glad that my sister was not part of this. I regret that my niece may be. Though,” he sneered, “it seems that all three of Druella’s brood turned out to be no good! Bellatrix is a traitor to her husband, Narcissa may be sheltering her, and Andromeda is married to a Black!”

“Look on the bright side,” urged Selwyn. “At least none of them can have additional offspring!”

“They cannot, but I need to, since my daughter is useless for matchmaking now. I need to take a new wife,” Lestrange said sourly. “Once I have found Bellatrix and taken care of that problem, I will be free to do so even according to the rules that Alphard Black observes.” He glared ahead as they reached the boundary of Lord Cygnus’s property. “I hate having to tell his high lordship this, to be honest with you. He will not like our conclusion. Draco Malfoy is the last Malfoy heir.”

“Young Lord Draco probably has nothing to do with it,” said Selwyn. “And Lucius may be _relatively_ innocent too. If his wife did this and he let her bully him, that’s certainly an offense to his high lordship… but it doesn’t seem as bad as if Lucius were the source of the idea.”

“I suppose Bellatrix _might_ be on her own,” Lord Rosier mused. “She seems resourceful. She might not be sheltering with anybody.”

Lestrange spat as they reached the Apparition boundary. “I’m going to bring _my daughter_ home and ask _her_ about it.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom and Hermione huddled together in the clearing of the forest as they lit the final Imbolc candle. The candles rested on a flat stone that Hermione had levitated to this spot. The light of dawn was peeking through the branches of the trees. Hermione suppressed a yawn.

Tom chuckled at the sight and pulled her close. She wrapped the blanket she had brought around herself to keep warm as the candles burned and the early morning light slowly grew brighter.

“This feels vulnerable,” she admitted to him.

“How so?”

“The sun is beginning to rise,” she explained. “We’re not concealed by darkness… and we cannot assume that people are sleeping.” Noticing the frown on his face, she reassured him, “But that does not mean I regret it! It’s a lovely ritual. We’ll just need to have an alibi if someone sees us as we go back into the castle.”

Tom scowled at her vague allusion to Malfoy’s laws. “If anyone sees us and asks, we were just enjoying the sunrise. In our defense, it _is_ a nice one. Look at those colors.”

Hermione gazed at the candles, then the frost-covered ground, then upward to the reddish morning sky. “The light is returning,” she murmured. “The meaning of Imbolc. It has certainly returned to _us._ This should be a cause for happiness. Tom, I’m not just worried about being caught returning to the castle.” She gazed at him. “I’m worried about the summer.”

She did not seem quite finished explaining her concern yet. He held her as she poured out her fears to him.

“Weddings have been attacked before, Tom. I don’t know if it happens to the wizarding nobility, but it has happened to Muggles before—Saxon and probably Norman too. When many people gather in one place to revel and make merry, and drink, they become easy targets.”

“Hermione—”

“Your mother is with child! As soon as that’s known—and it _will_ be by then, because it’ll be visible—she is also a target. They will try to kill her babies. I have heard of that happening too, pregnant noblewomen being stabbed in the belly. And I don’t think that Malfoy and his allies ever intended to let us actually wed.”

Tom gazed at the candles, which were stubs now. One of them went out, leaving a puddle of melted wax on the stone. “I agree with you. They didn’t mean for our wedding to ever happen, and they will try to harm Mother. But Parselhall is _secure._ She has said it so many times. I trust her.”

“So do I, but I just… worry. It would be a perfect opportunity for our enemies. They know that war is ahead, and this would be an event—probably the _only_ event—for which all the people they oppose are in the same place. They would see it as a chance to strike a blow we couldn’t recover from, to end the war before it begins.”

He considered that. “That is all true, but Mother must know it too. Mother… and Snape,” he begrudged. “I’ll write to her just in case, though. We _will_ be prepared. What you describe—it won’t happen.”

Hermione gazed at the rest of the candles. The ones that were still burning were flickering dimly, surrounded by pools of wax. She drew her wand and extinguished them, then cleaned the wax off the stone, leaving no evidence that anyone had performed an illegal Celtic ritual. Tom scowled at her movements but did not try to prevent her from clearing up; he understood the reason. When she was finished, he offered her his arm, and together they walked out of the forest.

The reached the courtyard of Hogwarts, only to see at once that they were not alone. Two cloaked figures were standing in the shadows, having a conversation. The sky was still dark enough that it was not possible for Tom or Hermione to identify the people—

The shorter figure turned around, eyes wide and frightened. “What are you two doing out of the castle?” Adelaide Lestrange exclaimed.

Tom stared back at her. “We watched the sunrise,” he replied curtly. “What are _you_ and—Professor _McGonagall?”_

Hermione was equally shocked. Minerva McGonagall was the Head of Gryffindor, not Slytherin. Why would _she_ be helping Adelaide with whatever was going on?

The taller cloaked figure peered authoritatively at Tom and Hermione. “Both of you, get behind that arch,” she said. She turned to Adelaide again. “Are you ready? Do you have everything in order?”

“Everything that I need,” the girl mumbled. She gazed at the castle of Hogwarts unhappily. “I still cannot believe this—I know I was not your best pupil, but I looked forward to being here, and now—” She broke off, turning her hooded head away.

McGonagall was silent for a moment. “It may be that you can return someday,” she said.

Adelaide shook her head, as if to dismiss that idea. McGonagall pursed her lips but did not speak again to contradict her. Hermione and Tom watched from a distance, hidden from behind the arch that McGonagall had directed them to, as a third person appeared in the courtyard with a pop. This one was silhouetted in the morning light, so they could not identify who it was.

The figure shook McGonagall’s hand gingerly and turned to Adelaide, placing a hand on her shoulder. A sob wracked the girl. In the next moment, both of them Apparated away.

McGonagall then turned to the arch where Tom and Hermione were concealed. She strode over and peered at both of them.

“‘Watch the sunrise,’” she repeated skeptically. “Lord Thomas, I am well aware of what day it is, and I will certainly keep your secret for you. I am of that blood myself, so I have no desire to get anyone in trouble for observing the old holidays. But you and Lady Hermione will keep your lips sealed about what you just witnessed as well.”

“Is she leaving the school?” Hermione asked quietly.

McGonagall nodded. “She has been targeted by her own father. Apparently he thinks that she knows where her mother is and means to harm her if she won’t tell. She came to me after a Transfiguration lesson to tell me. It was unexpected, because she never seemed to regard me as a mentor, but I think she wanted to confide in a woman. Her own female friends in Slytherin have abandoned her too.”

Tom and Hermione had noticed that. Adelaide’s band of Slytherin girls had ostracized her since the owls had arrived to deliver the fateful news to her and Draco Malfoy.

“It is despicable, and even though I was not her Head of House, and she was far from my favorite pupil, I will not watch this sort of atrocity happen to a witch.” Her lips thinned even further than they already were. “High Master Dumbledore and the other professors do not know of my role in this.”

“They will not find out because of us,” Hermione promised her. “I swear.”

“And so do I,” Tom said, as they held their wands aloft.

McGonagall nodded. “I accept your oaths. Now, get back inside the castle.”

* * *

Adelaide had left behind some of her relatively impersonal belongings, as well as a note that apparently—according to the story being told—indicated that she was leaving the country itself to go to the Continent.

“I very much doubt that,” Tom confided to Hermione that night in their private room. “But of course, she had to have an explanation other than the real one.”

Hermione agreed. “It’s worrying, Tom. I do not know exactly what Professor McGonagall was implying this morning, but if she is that afraid of her own _father,_ the man must be a monster. I mean, he is, of course,” she clarified, “but it’s a rare monster indeed who turns against his own child.”

“He is following in the footsteps of Armand Malfoy,” Tom said sourly. “For her sake, I hope that he never finds her, because her fate will probably mirror the fate of Malfoy’s offspring too if he does.”

Hermione shuddered.

“On the other hand, my mother received some good news about… the Muggles,” he said. Hermione instantly knew that he was referring to the widow Lady Cecilia and her child. “The child is a girl, but the two of them went to live with her family. It’s a relief.” He sighed and stretched his legs in front of him.

“Your friends have been better to me,” she said in a change of subject. “I think that what you said to them last month did the job.”

“Good,” he said. “Whenever we have a meeting again, you are invited.”

She smiled and curled against his side. “I think I _will_ come, actually—and I was just about to tell you that the Friends of the Founders are holding a meeting tomorrow night, and that _you_ are invited.” She gazed wryly at him. “If you can bring yourself to sign that paper stating that you will not tell any Malfoy allies about it.”

He scowled. “I still don’t like swearing oaths to them… but if it really does refer only to Malfoy allies, I suppose I can do that.”

* * *

The following night, Tom and Hermione ascended the many staircases to go to the Come-and-Go Room for the meeting. They linked their arms together and walked as close to each other as they could. Hermione was thrilled at how eager he was to express their bond once again, and a smile formed on her face almost involuntarily at the thought. She continued to smile as they entered the room and Tom signed the document, even though his eyebrows narrowed and he took in his breath abruptly as he affixed his name. Harry gave them an encouraging look and handed them flagons of ale for refreshment. Hermione noticed relief in his eyes as she sat down with hers.

Unfortunately, the smile faded from Hermione’s face as soon as the Weasley boys entered the room. The twins bore expressions of haughtiness, as if they knew a secret that no one else did. They regarded Tom with surprise. One of them narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Tom, while the other snorted lightly at the sight of Tom and Hermione’s blatantly affectionate, possessive body language. It was obvious to Tom and Hermione that the Weasley twins either regarded their affections as insincere, or found it amusing to have observed a noble couple in an affectionate moment. Tom noticed, and he glared back at them, making a point of holding Hermione around the waist.

The younger Weasley boy was not so able as his older brothers to control himself. He sneered openly at Tom and turned to Harry and Neville. “Why is _he_ here?” he demanded. “The last I saw, he refused to sign our list and stormed away… though I suppose _she”_ —he gestured at Hermione—“must have told him everything anyway.”

Wordlessly, Tom rose from his seat, drawing his wand. He advanced toward Ronald Weasley.

Hermione leapt to her feet and grabbed Tom’s arm. “Leave it,” she said. She shot a harsh glare at Weasley. “Some people are churlish. Don’t sink to their level.”

“Lord Thomas is here because he is interested in the same goals that we are,” Harry Potter spoke up, peering darkly at Weasley. “Anything Lady Hermione told him is between them. The oath only refers to Malfoy’s allies, which Lord Thomas absolutely is not.”

“Maybe it should be broader,” Weasley said, continuing to glare at them. He edged closer to his bigger, taller brothers. “Maybe it should include talking to _anyone_ except ourselves and our families.” He sneered at Hermione. “And he is not your family yet.”

“That oath would prevent _us_ from gaining any new allies, since we couldn’t tell anyone else about the group,” Neville Longbottom said sharply. “Sit down and leave them be, Weasley.”

Ronald mumbled something resentfully to his older brothers as he sat down. Tom made a motion to follow him, but Hermione reached again for his arm and pulled him back towards her. He sighed but assented.

Harry strode to the front of the room. “Welcome to all, as always, and good evening to you. The Weasley family has some important news for us tonight, which I understand that Ronald Weasley will tell—”

Tom glowered at this.

“—and I myself would like to announce that my godfather, Sirius Black, is getting married to Marlene McKinnon Valant, of Godric’s Hollow, in a week.” He raised his flagon in a toast, and in the next fraction of a second, the group members all followed. Hermione and Tom exchanged meaningful, pointed glances with each other as they clinked theirs together with the flagons of the people nearby.

 _I wonder if Regulus has told him anything yet,_ Tom thought as he quaffed his ale.

The three Weasley boys had joined the toast, but they all hovered in a knot, gazing suspiciously outward at the others. Harry noticed.

“Is something wrong?” he inquired. His voice was just a little too innocent.

“I mean no offense to your godfather,” Ron Weasley said, “but I have heard some things about his bride.”

“What have you heard?”

“Her first husband, a Muggle, fell fighting for the queen-pretender.”

“That’s true. Is there a problem with that?”

The twins nudged Ron. He scowled. “I suppose not.”

Harry nodded curtly. “I am glad to hear it. Now, the next bit of news tonight, as I mentioned, is going to be given by… Ronald Weasley himself.” He gestured courteously as Ron rose and came to the front of the room.

“Some of you may know that my eldest brother, William, has been on the Continent for a while, trying to gain the support of the goblins. I am pleased to tell everyone that… he has managed it at last.”

Polite applause filled the room, but Tom did not join in. He gazed at Weasley with a studying look, as if trying to read his thoughts. _Perhaps he is,_ Hermione thought.

“I understand that he has promised them quite a treasure trove of goblin-made artifacts that they said had been stolen from them by English witches and wizards,” Ron continued.

Tom’s eyebrows narrowed abruptly. “Excuse me?” he spoke up. “Stolen? And he believed their word, just like that?”

“He says that the goblins have a different view of property—that the creator of something is always the owner, and any ‘payment’ for it is rent, and passing it on to one’s heirs is theft from the goblins.”

Tom sputtered in contempt. “So what?” he exclaimed. “If that is what they think, then they should put it in the contracts they have with their human customers—or not do business with us at all! Why should _we_ defer to _their_ views if they lie and deceive us, just so they can hold a grudge about how wicked humans are? There is a reason we don’t trust goblins,” he finished darkly.

Ron was standing at the front of the room, appalled. He turned to Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom in outrage. “I cannot believe you allow this,” he complained. “Is it because he is noble?”

“We have always allowed debate and dissent, Weasley,” Neville said.

“Well, I think this is taking it too far.” Ron pointed at Tom. “He is not with us! I don’t know why he is here—or why _she_ is here, unless it was to spy on us for him—but he is not on our side. How can you not see that?”

“Sit down, Ronald,” one of the twins growled.

He almost looked for a moment as if he might, but he changed his mind. “No, let’s talk about it. I really would like to know why Riddle is here—oh, pardon me, ‘Lord Thomas,’” he said, giving a mocking bow.

Tom drew his wand and advanced. “I would like to know why _you_ are here,” he said, pointing his wand at Weasley’s forehead. “Half of the pupils in the school heard what you said about witches when Malfoy’s Imperius laws went up! You don’t have an objection to witches being controlled!” He glared at the younger boy’s face, trying to lock his gaze with Weasley’s, but Weasley kept his eyes directed at his feet out of intimidation. “And now your brother has negotiated an ‘alliance’ that loots Britain’s magical treasury and hands it over to the goblins! What authority does your brother have to pledge that? Who do your family think they are?”

“My family has more authority than—” Weasley suddenly slammed his lips shut as the twins rose from their seats.

“That is a fair question, actually,” Harry said, frowning as he considered Tom’s words. “What _is_ your brother talking about giving the goblins, and when? If it’s something your family owns—or would gain at the end of a war, because it was something you lost to Malfoy—then that is your own affair, but is that all he promised them?”

“I want to know why he thinks that his family members have the authority to make promises like that,” Tom repeated, glaring at Weasley.

“And _I_ would like him to explain what he said about witches and Malfoy’s law,” Hermione added, standing up.

Ronald Weasley looked like a trapped rabbit. “I was angry about my mum!” he burst out. “And the goblins—my brother—it’s just a promise he made, right?”

“Are you implying that he did not mean it?” Tom said.

“He meant it, but… I don’t owe _you_ an explanation,” Ron said sullenly.

“But you owe us one,” Harry spoke up. “Neville and me. And Luna,” he added as she took his side, “and… your own sister?” Ginny Weasley had taken her place by Neville, and was gazing at her brothers in shock.

One of the twins finally rescued Ron. “As I understand it, _our family_ has taken the lead with the full approval of your father, Potter; your parents, Longbottom; the Macmillans and Bones; _and_ Dumbledore. We thought that your parents would have told you. Truly, we did.”

Tom and Hermione glanced quickly around the room to get a look at everyone’s expressions. Harry and Neville were shocked. So was Luna. Susan Bones and Ernest Macmillan were surprised. Ginny Weasley was outraged.

“Why would you have thought that?” she exclaimed. “You did not even tell me that they were now leading it, let alone that Bill had promised wizarding treasure to the goblins that was not his to give away!”

“I think they decided not to tell you because—” the twin who was speaking broke off.

“Because I am a witch?”

“Because you are young.”

“I think it’s because I am a witch. I know what Mother thinks. She is such a hypocrite.”

Harry attempted to interpose. “Let’s all _calm down,”_ he urged. “This is very surprising, and I think we all have additional questions….” He trailed off, his attention distracted by Tom.

Tom was still trying to lock eyes with any of the Weasley boys. At last, he met the blue eyes of Ronald Weasley. He gazed hard into the other boy’s face for a moment, his dark eyes widening in unmitigated shock at whatever thought he had just read. His eyebrows narrowed as he turned aside.

“Tom?” Hermione asked.

He shook his head quickly. “I will explain later,” he said in a tone so low that no one else could hear it. To Harry he said, “You are quite certain that you know nothing of what your father or anyone else’s parents are doing for this—group?”

He shook his head. “This is a surprise to me. I had no idea that the Weasley family now led the group… the _outside_ group, of course. As for this goblin alliance….” He turned to the Weasley boys. “What treasure did your brother promise them, and when?”

One of the twins replied. “At the end of the coming war, the goblins who fought for us would get to look over all the wizarding treasure and take back anything that belonged to them.”

Tom’s jaw dropped. _“What?”_ he roared. “How _dare_ you! I don’t know if my mother owns anything goblin-made—though she probably does—but it doesn’t matter. How _dare_ your family! Your plan is to win the war, sit high and mighty, and give away the treasury to foreign agents? And they are, Weasley. They are not witches and wizards. They do not share our interests, and by your own admission, they have been living on the Continent, to boot.”

“This is a… surprising bit of news,” Harry said haltingly, staring at the Weasleys. “How did your family think the wizarding nobility would accede to that?”

“Most of them support Malfoy and Lestrange. They would be defeated.”

“Not all do,” Hermione spoke up, standing beside Tom arm-in-arm.

“I understand exactly why you did not want us here,” Tom snarled to them, “and why you wanted to expand that oath of silence! My family and our allies are your enemies too, now, aren’t they?”

Ronald Weasley drew his wand on Tom and sent a curse at him. Shocked, Tom blocked it, then returned a stronger one. Weasley crashed backward, stumbling on his feet. He fell backward on the floor.

Everyone else in the room went for their wands if they did not already have them in hand. Harry and Neville shared a quick glance, then raised theirs high and sent showers of magical sparks through the room.

“Wands _away!”_ Harry exclaimed. “This has gone too far already!” He gazed at Neville for nonverbal confirmation of something. Neville nodded grimly. Harry turned back to face the restive group. “I think this should be the final meeting. Clearly, things are going on at our parents’ homes that _most_ of us know nothing about. Anyone who wishes to practice magic, as we did in previous years, please let me know so that we can form a new group for that. But this political group seems like a sham to me now, to be frank.” He gazed at the Weasleys in disappointment. “I did not know that your parents and brothers were making plans of that magnitude.”

“It is not our fault if your father did not tell you,” said Ron, getting to his feet again.

“No, it isn’t, but I see little point in meeting if our opinions mean nothing to anyone. What is the purpose of this if people are going to make the important decisions behind our backs?” He flicked his wand, summoning the list of names, and folded it up. “We are still bound not to talk of this to Malfoy or his supporters… but….” He trailed off, gazing at Tom and Hermione in concern.

Tom was staring back at Harry, trying to come to a decision about something. He then glanced away, meeting Hermione’s gaze with his. He pulled her close and gave the Weasleys a withering glance as they left the room together, ahead of everyone else.

They walked quickly down the hall, almost running. Tom was in a hurry, and Hermione was eager to be away from that and find out what he had learned from performing Legilimency on Ron Weasley. Whatever it was, he had not liked it at all, but it was also not something that he had wanted to blurt out to the group. She felt a growing trepidation as they descended the many flights of stone steps.

At last they reached the ground floor. Tom strode toward their private room, closed the door behind Hermione, and locked it tightly with magic. He sank onto a sofa and pulled her down next to him.

“Hermione,” he finally said, “I did not want to tell Potter this until I asked your opinion first.”

She remembered the conclusion of the aborted meeting, and how he had stared at Harry contemplatively. “Is this about what you read in Ron Weasley’s thoughts?”

He nodded. “This is bad, Hermione. It’s worse than giving away other people’s property to goblins, and that’s quite bad enough in its own right.” He took a deep breath. “The Weasleys have one son who is knighted.”

“I know,” she said. “Ginny Weasley mentioned it that other time that you came—briefly.”

He looked pained at that memory. “I really wish I had stayed, then,” he said quietly. “I humiliated you that evening, and I am sorry, and it seems that I got what I deserved for it by missing out on hearing that.” He sighed. “I doubt I would have guessed _then,_ but enough has happened since then…. Hermione, he is not just a knight. He is the Muggle pretender Stephen’s _personal_ wizard knight. The eldest brother has plans to go to the Muggle court as well. They have formed an alliance with him. His Muggle supporters—many of them—back him specifically because they do not want a woman, his cousin, ruling. He is also offering the church power over many government affairs.” He put his head in his hands. “God only knows what the Weasleys have told him about wizards and witches! This could be a disaster, Hermione.”

She was gazing at Tom in horror. “Tom! Lord Regulus’s first visit to Parselhall last summer! He told us that his grandfather Lord Arcturus had heard of magic being used in a battle in the Muggle civil war, and that they thought it meant Malfoy or Lestrange had an alliance with one of the pretenders. It wasn’t!” She glared at the ceiling. “It was a _Weasley!”_

He gaped at her. “You’re right,” he exclaimed. “You are absolutely right.” He gazed ahead, his eyes wide with alarm and upset. “Mother has to know of this. She will want to tell Lord Regulus about it, of course.” He turned to her. “What about Potter? Does he live with that wretched father of his still?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds as if he might have the option of living with Sirius Black soon instead.”

“I hope he does. You should urge him to do that,” Tom said.

“And of course, this is why Harry’s father and the Weasleys dislike Sirius’s fiancée,” she glowered. “Her first husband fell fighting for the other side!”

Tom glowered back. “Do you think we should tell Potter about this?”

She considered. “Yes,” she finally said. “He was not happy when the Weasleys gave their news. He dismissed the meeting early and disbanded the group. He is angry with his father already. He needs to know.”

* * *

Tom and Hermione took Harry aside privately the following evening to give him the bad news. His green eyes grew wider by the moment as they explained the full story to him—minus the information from Regulus Black, which they had sworn not to talk about with others.

“I cannot believe it,” Harry gasped at last. “How could they do that? And not to tell Ginny anything?” He gazed out. “This must be what my father was keeping secret in his correspondence. And are Neville’s parents part of it? Do they support this?”

“I was not able to tell that from what I read in Weasley’s thoughts,” Tom said. “I am more concerned about Dumbledore.” He gazed at Hermione. “You said over Christmas that you had overheard him arguing with McGonagall about the Weasleys.”

Hermione nodded. “Harry knows about that. I told him, and we agreed it had to be the Weasleys that they were discussing. Dumbledore was convinced that the Weasleys were insincere in whatever they were saying—promising—but McGonagall believed that they meant it and criticized the behavior of the boys in particular as evidence to support her opinion.”

“I remember. This is put in a very different light now,” Tom growled. “It sounds as if they have offered concessions to the pretender that will harm witches. So—witches, anyone who owns goblin-made property, wizarding nobles who oppose Malfoy—I wonder if they have made any other promises that betray the magical population of Britain?”

That observation was left in the air, for Hermione and Harry to contemplate.

“I am going to leave my father’s house,” Harry said abruptly. “Sirius needs support.”

Tom and Hermione shared knowing, secret grins.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Merope read Tom’s letter—which Hermione had also signed, she noted—and set it down abruptly. She turned to Severus in concern.

“Lord Regulus and his family were correct,” she said. “There is an alliance with one of the Muggle pretenders to the throne. They were wrong about who made it, though.”

Severus raised his eyebrows.

“It is not Malfoy and Lestrange. It’s the Weasley family—and very likely Albus Dumbledore.”

Severus sat own in his chair, his brow furrowing. “That is not good news. That basilisk—I understand exactly why your son did not want it left at Hogwarts, even if he did not know at the time how dire this was. We need to have a plan for getting it away from Dumbledore as soon as possible.”

“That may not be very soon, Severus. It cannot be Apparated, and it’s too cold to transport it by non-magical means. At least Dumbledore cannot get into the Chamber of Secrets without the complicity of a Parselmouth, and Tom is the only such at Hogwarts.”

“Should we tell our allies?”

She considered that. “Let’s tell Lord Regulus. He is our chief ally now, after all, and since his grandfather was already on the trail of this when he died, he deserves to know first. We can discuss together, with him, what to do about telling the others.” She gazed out the windows at the thawing grounds. “Tom and Hermione also tell me that they are concerned about the security of their wedding. It’s a valid concern.”

“Their wedding should not be held on the date that we give out publicly,” he said. He turned away from the landscape and faced her. She moved to face him but found it hard to meet his eyes. “It should be held— _quietly—_ at an earlier date, with only the invited guests aware of that. Otherwise… the ceremony will be targeted. They are correct about that. Regulus is convinced that the elf source was killed, and I fear that he is right, but he was sure that Malfoy had not given up his plan to force you to marry a loyal man of his own. Frankly, I think we should make the first move.”

Merope’s face turned grim. “Severus, I don’t even know what that move should be. What if Tom is right about Lord Malfoy, and he is deathless? And apparently we may have more than one enemy to fight before this is over. The ground is thawing. Summer is coming quickly.”

He gazed out at the grounds once again, thinking.


	43. A Change of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I had a snow day, so that means you get a bonus chapter this week! This one is mostly rather dark and foreboding, I'm afraid, but it contains some new points of view that I expect you have all very much wanted to have for a while.

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

Lady Narcissa Malfoy passed through the great, heavily warded double doors to the private family quarters of the castle. Her beautiful face was pinched; she held a document between gloved fingers as though it bore a curse. She reached a blank expanse of wall, removed the glove on her right hand, and—keeping the scroll under her arm—drew out a small knife to nick her hand. Wincing, she pressed it against the stone surface.

A door outline appeared for a moment and then completed, revealing a heavy wooden door. It swung open of its own accord. Narcissa healed her hand and entered the room, making sure to close the door behind her.

It was a relatively small room, with a bed, two chairs, a table, and a bookcase in close quarters. A narrow doorway indicated a smaller room adjacent to it, a storage closet that had been repurposed. Bellatrix Lestrange sat in one of the chairs, reading a book, scowling deeply.

Narcissa took her seat and handed the document to her sister. “Lucius just returned from his high lordship’s castle,” she said tautly. “Apparently, he has procured a civil divorce for Rodolphus. This is the announcement.”

Through the narrow inside doorway, a smothered snarl echoed.

“Adelaide, come out at once and speak to your aunt,” Bellatrix snapped.

She emerged from the tiny room, her face contorted in a way astonishingly like her mother’s. Bellatrix scowled for a moment, but then she supposed that, even if she were determined to look like that, at least she did not resemble her vile father. Since her mother and aunt occupied the two seats, Adelaide remained standing.

“You may sit on my bed,” Bellatrix said. Adelaide complied.

Bellatrix then turned to her sister, her eyes wide and angry. “And what do I care if that bastard has divorced me? He hasn’t been faithful to his marital vows in years. He could not keep his dick out of the Muggle whores of the village—”

“Bellatrix, your daughter,” Narcissa said sharply.

Bellatrix and Adelaide exchanged indifferent glances. “Do you really suppose she doesn’t know about these things?”

“It’s uncouth. You sound like an English churl, not to put too fine a point on it.”

Bellatrix sneered. “Our father _is_ English. The English churls seem to treat witches better than Normans. Far better to say ‘uncouth’ words than to threaten one’s wife with execution and take the side of a rapist against one’s own child! I’m very glad _indeed_ for you that the worst you have to worry about from Lucius is that he might have a social _faux pas.”_

Narcissa looked chastened at that.

Smugly Bellatrix continued. “As I was saying, Cissy, I don’t care if Lucius’s grandfather did that for him. It’s good riddance, as far as I am concerned! I have wanted to be rid of the Muggle-fucking lout for years. What interests me more is when and how _this_ situation might change.” She gazed scornfully around the small, hidden, windowless room. “You know that if anything happened to his high lordship, Lucius would assume the title.”

“Would he?” Narcissa said darkly. “I am not convinced that he would.”

“What do you mean? Do they suspect?”

“Of course they suspect!” she exclaimed. “It’s a matter of time before they force the truth out of Lucius! Fortunately, he himself cannot use the blood ward, but of _course_ they suspect! I think there are problems with the idea of anything ‘happening’ to Lord Malfoy in the first place….”

Bellatrix gazed sharply at her sister. Adelaide glanced at Bellatrix in confusion. “Mother? What does she mean?”

Narcissa shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t speak of what I cannot prove. In any case, if he did die, how do you know that he would not have picked _Rodolphus_ to be the new high lord? And then there are other factors. I am convinced that Lord Black is scheming. He wants revenge for his father’s death.”

“Yes,” Bellatrix drawled. “I am sure he does. _Did_ you and Lucius have anything to do with that? It will not go beyond these walls… obviously.”

“We did not. I think I know what happened now.” She eyed them. _“This_ cannot go beyond these walls either. Lucius has since then discovered a secret entrance to the castle.”

Bellatrix’s eyes widened in surprise.

“It has a Malfoy blood ward on it, meaning that it would have allowed Lord Malfoy secret access. I believe that the passage itself must date from the time when Godric Gryffindor built this castle, though; it looks original to the structure.”

“You think Armand Malfoy sneaked into the castle and poisoned Lord Arcturus _himself?”_ Bellatrix exclaimed. Her face paled, as did Adelaide’s. “But that means he could get in again!”

“We have since then added charms to make it more difficult. But yes, that is what I think happened. Orion Black has remained furious about it. Our sister Andromeda is not very communicative, but I think she is with her husband Regulus on this. And I also wonder if that branch of our family is interested in allying with… the blood-traitors of Hangleton.”

Bellatrix’s nose wrinkled. “It would be a disgrace if they did. Still, the Mudblood informed me of the vile thing that was done to my daughter. The one time I will ever be grateful to a Mudblood for anything.”

“Riddle has a group of friends that followed him for years,” Adelaide muttered. “They have openly defied the law and worn old symbols on their clothing. I think they have performed the illegal holiday rituals, too. And those families are allied with Lady Riddle now.”

“So,” Narcissa said, rising to her feet, “you should ponder this, sister. Lucius and I are not assuming that he will ascend to his grandfather’s position, if his high lordship is even close to death—which I highly doubt. Rodolphus might—or there might be war.”

Bellatrix scowled again. “As miserable as that prospect is, at least it would mean that Adelaide and I could get out.”

_“If_ we all survived such a war,” Narcissa said pointedly. “What makes you so certain that we will? No one trusts us, Bellatrix. Lucius and I have no allies except our own vassals.”

_“What?”_ she breathed, horrified.

“It’s true. The Blacks do not trust us, Lord Malfoy doesn’t, your former husband certainly doesn’t, and the Riddles seem to detest us because of our family name.”

“Why do you care about that pack of blood-traitors?”

“I don’t care about them. But I am no fool, Bella, and I see signs that they are seeking something higher than what they have. If there is war, we might face the prospect of a Black or a Riddle in the seat that Lord Armand Malfoy currently holds. Obviously, if there is a war, and Rodolphus and Lord Malfoy win, we are all lost. But if not… what would you rather have, a half-blood with a Mudblood wife ruling wizarding Britain? Or a Black, as we are by birth?”

“Are you suggesting allying with that lot? Half-bloods, blood-traitors, and a Mudblood?”

“I’m suggesting nothing except that you should ponder what I’m telling you.” She pushed the door open; from the inside, it did not require a blood sacrifice. With a single, pointed look, she left her sister and niece to their thoughts.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Winter was turning into spring, and Merope was noticing changes in her body. It might not have been noticeable if she were carrying only one child, but with two, she noticed that she was beginning to gain weight and that a bump was now visible. A small one, one that she could still conceal with the right robes, but nonetheless….

In the morning light of their bedroom, Severus stretched and turned to her. He smiled as he noticed what she was examining.

“They will be born healthy,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I know it. Look at how well they’re developing now.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said. “It does look good.” Her eyelids fluttered closed as he touched the place. It was still so wonderful to share the joys of a pregnancy with the child’s (or children’s) father—her _husband._ Sir Thomas had abandoned her before Tom was born, and even during the pregnancy, there had been the awful, terrifying secret between them—the secret of her magic, the secret of the magic that their child would certainly have. Merope could not yet detect the magic of these two, but one generally couldn’t until about half term, if then. Sometimes a prospective mother never did, and had to wait until the child was able to produce a magical outburst to know that the child was a witch or wizard.

She and Severus got out of bed and began to dress themselves. “I hate to mention this subject again,” Severus began, “but we really must make plans. Having Tom and Hermione’s wedding on a secret date is only the beginning. As soon as the date that we give out passes, we will be attacked. We need the basilisk of Slytherin, and we need to consider attacking first.”

“With the basilisk?” Merope said, frowning deeply. “Severus, I don’t want to do that.”

He sighed. “Our allies will not want to risk their lives for us if we are not using all the weapons that we have ourselves.”

“A basilisk is not like a dragon. It can easily be killed. It’s best as a surprise attack, not a weapon that everyone knows one has. Roosters aren’t exactly difficult to come by, Severus,” she said wryly.

He considered that. “That is true… and it would probably persuade the allied families to accept limited use of it.”

“Do they know of the basilisk?”

“You’ll have to ask your son that,” he snarked. “But if he has discussed Slytherin’s chamber with his friends at all, I think it’s safe to assume that the parents at least know we _might_ have access to it.”

“I’m _sure_ that he has told his friends about the chamber over the years.” She stared out the window. “What of this new threat? We have not heard anything from Regulus yet. This is a difficult one, Severus. I almost feel that we should make an alliance with the queen-pretender, to counter this… but….”

“I think that would be a grave mistake. Her forces are losing the Muggle war.” His words were grim. “We have two choices. Either make a _very_ late play for the Muggle throne yourself, based on your ancestry—”

Merope laughed darkly. “Tom would approve of that, I’m sure! But it’s an absurd idea, no offense. That line has not ruled any part of this island in six hundred years.”

“Or somehow consider a way to undermine the Friends of the Founders’ influence with the Muggle Stephen. What that might be, I do not know.”

She thought about it. “The Weasley family refused to take the oath of fealty to Armand Malfoy, who—vile as he is— _was_ King William’s choice to rule witches and wizards, and was retained by William’s sons. I wonder if Stephen knows that. I would imagine not, and I doubt he would be impressed if he did.”

“So, inform him that the Weasleys refused to swear fealty to the same man that we are going to openly wage war against?” Severus said, grinning.

She shook her head. “I didn’t say it was a _good_ idea.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Unfortunately, I do not have a better one,” he admitted. “We should focus first on Malfoy and Lestrange, though. They pose an immediate, dangerous, personal threat to us. I would suggest an attack on Lestrange’s castle, now that Carrow is the regent of that fief and Lestrange himself is polishing Armand Malfoy’s arse.”

The corners of Merope’s mouth tugged upward at that.

“Perhaps we should deal with the Weasleys by making a tentative alliance with some of the other Friends of the Founders, so that we would at least have a seat at the table. James Potter is a prick,” he sneered, “but _apparently_ Sirius Black will be strong-armed into a marriage alliance with us, and he has ties, of course. And the Longbottoms may be reasonable.”

She thought about this. “All right. We shouldn’t act while Tom and Hermione are still at Hogwarts, of course. They are too vulnerable there.”

“I agree.”

“I am very glad that Hermione studied so hard that she will be a master after only four years,” she continued. “I would have thought that Tom would be jealous, but he does not seem to be when it’s Hermione. He probably knows that he could have done the same thing if he had not put as much effort into his ‘family research’ and ‘alliances.’” Her gaze darkened. “But truly, for Hermione’s sake, I am glad that she has managed this. I would worry about her if she had to stay at Hogwarts an extra year after Tom had left.” She shuddered. “She would be so vulnerable there without him.”

“She does have other friends,” Severus said gently.

Merope took a deep breath and let it out slowly, to relax herself. “Yes. She does. It would not be as bad as if she were truly alone… and she was estranged from Tom for so long, but our enemies did not do anything bad to her. Still, they are feeling emboldened. If everything had happened the same, but Hermione had to stay an extra year… I would worry about her. Malfoy and Lestrange would—” She broke off at once. “I almost would have considered changing the contract with the Granger family so that she did not have to complete her education before getting married. Fortunately, none of that will be necessary.”

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

Rodolphus Lestrange strode into the great castle, his wand pointed directly at the back of the wizard who walked in front of him. To either side marched Selwyn and Rosier.

_His high lordship is not going to be pleased,_ Lestrange thought. _He was already inclined to be frustrated with Burke. And now…._

Malfoy sat on the high seat, his eyes gleaming in righteous anger and satisfaction as Lestrange, Selwyn, and Rosier hauled Caractacus Burke before him. Selwyn held Burke’s wand.

“Burke,” Malfoy said, “you have been brought before me to answer for insubordination and cowardice. My loyal vassals visited your manor with the intention of informing you of my plans for the scheme that we had agreed to _years_ ago—and instead, you insisted that you would not be part of it any longer! You do realize the penalty for direct defiance of your high lord, I hope?” he concluded, a sinister grin on his aged face.

Burke gazed at Malfoy’s shoes, trying to juggle subservience with courage, not wanting to look the high lord directly in the eye but also not wanting to cower. “My lord,” he said, “I do not wish to defy you. Please understand this. I am not a traitor. But I am nonetheless glad that Lord Lestrange has brought me before you, because I would speak with you about this plan. I fear it cannot possibly succeed, and I would like to demonstrate my loyalty to you by dissuading you from a scheme that could be disastrous.”

“Don’t listen to this cowardly scum,” Selwyn growled.

Malfoy held up his hand. “You say that it cannot possibly succeed. Why?”

Burke swallowed. “My lord, I have brought the locket of Slytherin before you—and of course, your lordship knows this, but Lady Riddle and her son are descendants of him. They are Parselmouths, and they could have access to Slytherin’s great weapon.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. _“That_ is your reason, Burke? I know much of Salazar Slytherin, more than _you,_ and he did indeed create a chamber in the bowels of Hogwarts to keep a monster. But there is nothing for _me_ to fear from that! Such beasts are easy to kill. I thought that your explanation would relate to the wards that Lady Riddle has placed on her castle.”

“That is another factor, sire. They are simply impassable. Any force that attempted to storm that castle would be killed from above. They could shoot curses down at us, my lord, and we could not return them due to those wards! I have examined them. They let spells out but not in. No one is getting into that castle by force, my lord, with all due respect, and I beg you not to try it. It will only result in the loss of whoever goes.”

“I have already been told that no one is getting into the castle by _force,”_ Malfoy said, his lips curling upward. “That is not my plan.”

Burke believed that he grasped Malfoy’s implication. “My lord, do you think you have a secret way in?”

“I will not inform the likes of _you_ of what I may know,” Malfoy snarled. He pointed his wand at Burke threateningly. “I want an assurance of your obedience before I tell you anything.”

“But my lord, I—”

“Or does your obedience depend on knowing my plans first?” he said, his words menacing. “Is your loyalty to your high lord _conditional?”_

Burke swallowed hard. “My lord… I have always served you. When my lord Arcturus Black died, I learned of the Black family’s attempts to undermine you. I do understand why you….” He trailed off, suddenly realizing what a mistake he had made.

Malfoy’s eyes widened and gleamed the wrong color. “Burke, you _dare_ accuse me of murder?”

“No, my lord! Certainly not! I merely was going to say that I heard of the Black family’s questionable actions after his death, so I understand why you would… think about me.” He winced, realizing that this statement was not much better than what had almost slipped out.

“If you are loyal to me, then you will stop being a coward. I almost think that you don’t _want_ to marry Lady Riddle anymore because I expect you to kill her after you have sired a child on her. Lord Arcturus hated the idea of even killing the half-blood and Mudblood, let alone this idea. Is that it, Burke?”

Burke gulped. “My lord, I do think that this plan involves a lot of blood… perhaps more than is truly necessary. _Snape,_ of course, would have to die… but must everyone else?”

Malfoy sucked in his breath abruptly. He turned to Lestrange. “Take him away.”

Burke gasped in horror as Lestrange, Selwyn, and Rosier grabbed his shoulders and marched him out of the great hall. He knew, as he left, that he would either be imprisoned—if he were lucky—or more likely, executed in some ghastly way. His heart thumped in terror, and as he approached the heavy double doors, his mind quickly formed a desperate, foolish plan—but it was his only hope.

As soon as he was out of Malfoy’s line of sight, he wrenched his right arm away from Rosier, who held it, and dug into his belt purse for the locket of Slytherin. “I cursed this,” he sneered, flinging it in Lestrange’s face.

To his surprise, the gambit worked. Lestrange recoiled in fear of being blasted with a curse, which gave Burke time to grab his wand away from the startled Selwyn, run just past the Apparition boundary—dodging Rosier’s curse—and Disapparate on the spot.

Lestrange was clutching his face, feeling his cheeks and nose all over to attempt to detect curse damage. The locket of Slytherin lay unattended a few feet away. Disgusted and frightened of the wrath that he knew they would all face from Malfoy, Selwyn gingerly approached the locket and cast a spell at it. When nothing happened, he gazed at Lestrange with contempt.

“He lied,” Selwyn said bitterly. “The bastard traitor _lied._ It is not cursed. Take your hands off your face, my lord.”

Lestrange froze in horror. His hands slowly fell away from his face, revealing a frightened pair of eyes. “No,” he croaked. “We _lost_ him. His high lordship will be furious.”

“Yes, he will,” Rosier said grimly, reaching for the locket, “but we must face up to it.”

The three wizards trudged miserably back into the great hall. Malfoy was visibly startled to see them, but Lestrange could tell from the way his face soured that he had instantly figured out what had happened.

“Rodolphus,” he said, his voice deadly dark, “what have you to say for yourself?”

Lestrange knelt and bowed low. “I am so sorry, my lord. The foul traitor tricked us, throwing that locket in my face and claiming it was cursed. He made his escape that way.”

Malfoy’s heavy breathing was the only sound audible in the cold castle. As he awaited his fate, it seemed to Lestrange that every second lasted for an eternity.

At last Malfoy spoke. “You have failed me, but you have not been disloyal to me,” he finally said. “You have not betrayed me.”

Lestrange’s heart leapt at these words. Perhaps he would not be executed.

“Nonetheless, you must bear the penalty of failure. Lestrange… I ordered you granted a divorce from your traitorous hag of a wife. For this boon, you already owed me, and this failure now has compounded your debt.”

Lestrange held his breath again.

“I know that _you_ support the plan for the Riddles. I have decided that, due to this failure, _you_ will marry the blood-traitor woman.”

Selwyn and Rosier exchanged relieved glances with each other, but Lestrange was not happy. He lifted his head and gaped at Malfoy. “My lord,” he sputtered, “I thank you for your mercy, but… Bellatrix still lives, and there are consequences to breaking one’s sworn oaths—”

“She lives _now,_ but we will find her.”

Lestrange protested. “My _lord,_ the Riddle woman is a dirty blood-traitor! She has taken a _Muggle_ between her legs—and a half-blood! She consorts with Mudbloods—”

“How _dare_ you,” Malfoy seethed. Lestrange lowered his gaze to the floor at once, terrified that he had gone too far. Malfoy continued, “How _dare_ you challenge my decision! Of all people, I expected _you_ to be loyal! I have spared your life and offered you freedom, after a failure that merits severe punishment! And”—he narrowed his eyes—“do not think me ignorant of _your_ conduct. You have had scores of Muggle women.”

“My lord, they’re _women—”_

“They are also _Muggles,_ and you are a wizard! I have not spoken against your actions, but do you suppose _I_ did such things in my youth? You should control your lusts better than a filthy Muggle, Rodolphus—but I suppose some of us _are_ weak, and others are strong. You are fortunate that I recognize your weakness for what it is and overlook it because of _your loyalty.”_ The final words were pointed.

Lestrange gulped. “My lord, I thank you again.”

“You will replace Burke in this role. You will kill Snape, Riddle, and the Mudblood. Whoever Lady Riddle may have had before, it does not change the fact that she herself is a pureblood—so after you have a new pureblood heir, you will remove her too.”

Lestrange was still appalled at what his lord was demanding that he do, but he did not dare protest any further. “Yes, my lord,” he said subserviently. Rather than focusing on the act of marrying the blood-traitor, he thought instead about the killings, the acts of vengeance against all of those who had defied and undermined his high lord’s rule, who had set in motion a chain of events that had torn apart _his_ family, who were dirtying the wizarding world by their very existence. “I will kill every Riddle I can get my hands on, and then I will kill that filthy snake of theirs, and after they are all dead, I will piss on their graves.”

* * *

Caractacus Burke banged hard on the doors of Cygnus Black’s well-concealed manor house. He had sent a messenger bird to Cygnus, a distant cousin of his, and hoped against hope that he would be granted sanctuary.

The family house-elf opened the door and bowed to Burke. “Master and Mistress have been expecting Burke.” The elf urged him inside and closed the door behind him.

Burke had not been in this manor house since he was a young man. Like all of the Black properties, it bore numerous banners with the family’s canine heraldic device. The menacing teeth of the dog gleamed in the torchlight.

Cygnus Black waited in his high seat, his wife Druella beside him. Although they were both silver-haired now, she remained an extremely attractive woman. Cygnus himself had the good looks of most of the Blacks, with a well-trimmed beard and a fine head of hair. He gazed down at Burke appraisingly.

“I am well aware that you have been doing Malfoy and Lestrange’s bidding,” he said abruptly.

Burke bowed. “Yes, I have—but they go too far. They would have me marry a woman only to murder her son, daughter-in-law, and then the woman herself after I had sired a child on her. And now, I would have to murder her current husband.”

“You are speaking of Lady Merope Riddle. As I understand it, you would have had to do that before as well.”

“Her first husband was a Muggle,” Burke explained. “She is married to a wizard now.”

Cygnus considered this before nodding. “You do make a good point.”

“So, cousin, that is what his high lordship Malfoy would have me do now. Killing all of her remaining family, and finally, the woman herself! That is too far for me. Marriage creates a bond of family, and those who betray their own families… well, it is a grave crime, even if his high lordship does not choose to consider it so when it’s one of his enemies.”

Cygnus nodded again. “I am to understand that Lord Malfoy has also involved my brother-in-law Rosier in his sordid business.” Beside him, Lady Druella scowled.

“Yes, he has, though Lord Lestrange is still his right-hand man.” Burke smirked to himself at the thought. As the one nominally in charge, Lestrange would bear the brunt of Malfoy’s wrath at the escape. Perhaps the bastard was even dead now.

“My brother is responsible for his own actions,” Lady Druella said tautly. “I, however, am more concerned for my daughters. Bellatrix is in hiding, I know not where. Andromeda and her husband are surely on Lord Malfoy’s list of enemies, simply because they are Blacks. Narcissa and her husband are definitely in danger. I realize that Lord Malfoy is also trying to wipe out the Riddle family, since their schemes started all this. I have come to agree with my husband’s family that they should be let alone, but I would not be interested in fighting purely on _their_ behalf. I am concerned about my own children. My lord husband and I could potentially lose all three of our daughters.”

Burke bowed his head. “I would not have such a terrible tragedy happen.”

“You have lost your manor. We can provide you shelter, but what can you offer us?” Cygnus asked.

Burke considered. “I can offer you my wand, of course—and I will tell you everything I know from my time plotting with Lord Malfoy and Lord Lestrange.”

Cygnus and Druella exchanged smug grins with each other.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall._

Peter Pettigrew crumpled the letter that he had received today from Amycus Carrow and closed his eyes, wincing. He was in a bind, and no mistake about it.

 

_Wormtail,_

_You had best come to the right decision about your loyalties. We are losing patience. You can let others into Castle Gaunt—for now. But if you continue to make mistakes, your blood-traitor liege will revoke access to you, and she might do worse. My sister and I had hoped that the magical implements that she gave to some of the villagers would be useful, but if she has all the Muggles in Hangleton kissing her robes, then you are on your own. You had better devise a way to allow others in secretly, and soon. If your presence at Castle Gaunt proves to be useless, it will end. I doubt that even you can explain away telling his high lordship about the treason of the Godric’s Hollow rabble. The blood-traitor witch would not like that, would she?_

 

Pettigrew set fire to the note. Before he had returned to the castle, Lady Riddle had declared it treason to correspond with the Carrows. She had not blamed him for receiving the previous note, in which Carrow ordered him to investigate the Muggles, but she would blame him for this. He was on thin ice and he knew it.

What could he do? Carrow—on behalf of Lestrange and Malfoy, obviously—wanted him to find, or create, a way to let people enter Parselhall undetected until it was too late. He wanted a surprise attack. If Pettigrew persisted in stalling, Carrow would find a way of informing Lord Severus and Lady Merope about what Pettigrew had done in 1130, and he was quite right that Pettigrew doubted he could explain that away. Pettigrew supposed that he could tell them first, and throw himself on their mercy, neutralizing the blackmail… but they would consider his deed a severe offense and an indication of loyalty to Malfoy. He probably would not be executed—Severus would want that, but Lady Merope was merciful—but he would spend a long time in their dungeons, probably in a dark cell with a magically sealed window, to prevent him from escaping by transforming into a rat.

Pettigrew wished he had never gone to Lord Malfoy that night. It had seemed like the only thing to do then, of course. He had loathed the Gaunts—the males, the father and son whom he served, were mad and wicked—and he had also been very angry with Prongs and Padfoot. They could have saved him—and his mother—but they refused.

_“But Peter, we cannot possibly shelter you in our little house! It is not a grand castle like the one you live in.”_

_“I don’t live in the castle. My mother and I have a manor home on the grounds.”_

_“Still, that is far grander than our place. We do not have room for you unless you live as a rat.”_

_“I would do that.”_

_James shook his head. “I won’t permit it, Peter. And then what about your mother? Lily and I will surely have children, and we’ll already have to house Sirius. Would you ask us to turn him out to make room for your mother, when she already has a house far better than ours? Don’t be so selfish.”_

That was it. Pettigrew was convinced, from that night, that his “friends” from Hogwarts cared nothing about him. He had _told_ them the kinds of things that Lord Marvolo and Lord Morfin did. It had not mattered. They had really believed that, as a scion of a knightly family, he could avoid the vile conduct of evil nobles. James in particular had not listened when he had protested that this was his liege lord and so it was difficult for him to avoid _anything._

There they would stay, safe and snug in their little cottage, James and Lily and Sirius, so confident that nothing could touch them no matter what they did. Risk was for lords and knights, like his family. _Or so they had thought._

That night, Pettigrew made certain that his friends would never again remember that he, too, was an Animagus. If they would not be loyal to him, he would not entrust them with his greatest secret.

Now, he wished he had never turned to Malfoy. Lady Merope was not like her brother and father. She had given him several chances now. The Pettigrews had served the Gaunts for ages, and he would have gladly served her.

But… she had also married Snape. He had detested Snape as a fellow Gaunt vassal. They had gotten along reasonably well as boys, but when he made friends with Sirius and James, and they had started to harass and bully Snape, Snape had blamed _him_ for it as well—and Snape apparently held a grudge for years. Pettigrew seethed as he thought about Snape’s behavior to him lately. _He has never trusted me,_ he thought angrily. _He made me take Veritaserum the first night I was here! I did not come here on Malfoy’s orders. I wanted to return to the family I had served._ That perhaps he did not _deserve_ trust did not occur to Pettigrew.

He then thought of Lord Thomas, Lady Merope’s son. The young man had had little to do with him so far, and Pettigrew did not know exactly what he got up to anymore—other than, apparently, reading books about forbidden Celtic magic and bedding his betrothed all the time—but he had spied on Lord Thomas as a rat in those early days before the girl took in that cat as her familiar. Lord Thomas was obsessed with his ancestry in those days, Pettigrew thought darkly, and that boded ill. Though he was far less inbred than most of the past Gaunts that Pettigrew’s ancestors had served, and did not bear the surname, he had all the signs of being just like the worst of the Gaunts. A streak of violence and madness ran through that blood.

_He may not inherit,_ Pettigrew reminded himself. _It might end up being one of Snape’s twins. They think that they can someday change that law, but even if they did, Riddle could still be challenged. Lady Merope is a good liege… but her son could be a menace, and if he isn’t her heir, then her heir will be a child who is part Gaunt and part Snape. That is no better._

Pettigrew glanced at the ashes of his letter again and shuddered. He did not want to betray the witch he served. Lady Merope had been kind to him, even when others had urged her not to. He was worried about what Carrow might write to her to tell her, but he would just have to keep an eye on the incoming owls. And perhaps urge her to put up a ward blocking any from their enemies. _Letters can carry curses,_ he thought, rising to his feet. _That is a logical reason to block them. I’ll advise her, and even though it’s really to protect me, it will sound good to her._

* * *

_Hogwarts, two months later._

Hermione and Tom made sure that no one was watching them on May Eve as they fled the castle. It was true that all celebrations of Celtic holidays were illegal, but they both rather doubted that a Yule log or some Imbolc candles would be quite as brazen an affront to Armand Malfoy’s awful law as a Beltane fire— _or_ the deed that they had in mind to follow it.

_Or a Samhain ritual, perhaps,_ Tom thought as he entered the edge of the woods. _I want to do that, and since we will not be at Hogwarts by then, perhaps I finally can. My ancestors could open doors to the Otherworld._ Tom recalled, as he hurried into the woods with Hermione, that the means that his ancestors had used to do that were rather atrocious… but perhaps there was a better way. It was another thing to read about this summer.

They reached the clearing where, three months ago, they had lit the Imbolc candles. This was already a magical site because of that, so it was a good choice. Together they laid out kindling into a circle, a magically powerful shape, then stepped away from it. The time was almost midnight.

The endeavors that they were going to bless were the same, and they were—Tom understood now—the most appropriate type of activity for this holiday of fertility and growth. Two years ago, when it was still allowed to celebrate this holiday openly and the Masters of Hogwarts had made a ritual fire, Tom had scorned the idea of blessing a romantic relationship. He had instead charmed his political ambitions. It had worked, he had to admit; that summer, he had finally managed to make some useful alliances. However, it had come at a terrible cost to his relationship with Hermione. He realized that this likely did not mean that the Beltane magic _inherently_ raised one goal to the detriment of something else, but rather, this outcome had been a reflection of his own sneering dismissal of Hermione’s importance to him. The magic truly had acted on his own feelings and values. Casting the charm now to bless their relationship—in a month, their marriage—would not hurt his other goals. Their relationship was mended now, but knowing the power of Beltane, Tom rather looked forward to the effects this ritual would have.

Together he and Hermione began to cast the spell in Gaelic. Green and gold sparks showered from their wands, falling on the kindling. They continued to chant until, at last, the wood burst into flames. For the most part they appeared as natural wood fire, orange and gold, but at their heart they were green.

They raised their wands and cast into the air the symbols of magic, eternity, and each month of the Celtic year. Hermione was enchanted, her eyes glittering with the colors of the fire as she watched. Tom realized, with a pang, that she had never seen this before. _She thought she would not get to do it,_ he thought. _After Malfoy banned it, the Masters of Hogwarts of course stopped recruiting pupils for this, so she would have assumed she just would not get to do it—unless we did it later, after she was no longer at the school._

Tonight there would be no sacrifice of fruit. They were going to do something that Dumbledore would never have permitted for the official school Beltane fire that he used to have. Hermione had been unsure about it, but ultimately she had agreed that this was not a malevolent use of blood magic. They drew blades and cut their palms open, letting a few drops fall onto the flames. What greater physical sacrifice was there than of one’s own vital fluid? The fire roared, contrary to logic—but in perfect accord with _magic._

They turned to each other with potent, meaningful looks on their faces and cast the bits of parchment bearing their expressed goals— _goal—_ into the fire. It accepted them, and immediately, the fire crackled as if in satisfaction and approval. Flames danced upward, entwined and seemingly knotted together. Sparks flew into the air. Tom suddenly recalled how, two years ago, he had seen the symbols of ravens and serpents, and perhaps even a crown. Then he remembered something else. In the heart of one flame—a flame that, uniquely that night, burned red—there had been the image of a person, furious and distraught. Tom had not thought about it since then, and he had not seen it long enough to identify who it was—but he knew now.

_That was my face,_ he thought. He gazed into the fire, wondering if it would show him anything of the sort tonight—but this fire did not.

Tom and Hermione held hands by the circular fire as it burned into the night. Soon the hot, intense crackling had subsided to a steady burn, and the flames decreased in both height and intensity. The pair turned to each other as the fire reached its steady state. Almost involuntarily, they fell into each other’s embrace. Their lips met, their faces damp with sweat from the spring night and their own proximity to the fire.

He gently lowered her to the ground and began to kiss her. A moan escaped her lips, and she reached aggressively for his dark hair as he pulled up her robes and trailed intense, bruising kisses down her face and neck.

They reached for each other everywhere, hands clutching and caressing, lips crashing together in a fog of heat and breath. Somehow their robes found their way to a pile well away from the fire, even as Tom and Hermione themselves remained close enough that the flames heated their bare bodies. The grass here was dry, but they rolled just a bit and found themselves in a dewy bed. The heat of the Beltane flames lessened but did not disappear.

Hermione gazed upward at the starry sky, her chest heaving, her legs splayed wide. “Tom,” she gasped.

He was hovering over her, the angles of his face accentuated by the firelight that continued to flicker behind them. “Yes?” he said in a voice that was almost a hiss.

“I took my potion, and it is not really the right time for my body anyway… but the magic of the day… what if….” She trailed off.

He gazed at her, her skin appearing golden in the firelight. The idea of Hermione carrying his child, her body fertile and ripe, made him want to take her right then and not even answer her. _And that will happen someday,_ he realized. _Perhaps even this summer. She will. We will._

“If it happens, then we will be parents eight months after our wedding, and my mother’s twins will have a niece or nephew less than a year younger than themselves,” he said, his lips curling upward in a moment of wry humor. He held her hips. He wanted her so, so badly. “Don’t worry about it, darling. It’s all right now.”

She considered that for a moment before wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and her legs around his waist.

The fire burned down to the forest floor. Hermione and Tom stayed in that spot, clad only in the night sky and the powerful magic of the rite, till the flames were embers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be, at long last, the wedding! It may not come out until Sunday.


	44. A Green Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are! Thanks for all the support of this story.

Hermione walked quickly with Tom to the patch of woods behind Hogsmeade. A small stone ruin of a structure with classical columns and a crumbling foundation lay hidden in the trees. In its glory days, it had been about the size of a small room, surrounded on all sides with columns. A squat, rectangular stone bin stood in the center. The ceiling had long ago collapsed, leaving some of the columns broken and an open view of the sky for anyone standing inside.

“This is ancient,” Hermione remarked, examining the columns. “It must date from Roman times.”

Tom nodded. “Yet another round of invaders. However, their architecture outlasted them. They must have used it originally as a temple, but my friends and I have met here whenever we could manage to escape the castle. It was greatly enjoyable to plot the reclaiming of our country in the crumbling ruins of defeated invaders.” He grinned.

Hermione managed to return the smile. Evidently, Tom’s specific form of patriotic sentiment had emerged from the sea cave with little alteration. He _was_ better; he no longer regarded everyone with Norman blood as untrustworthy, perhaps partly out of awareness that the British Isles had seen wave after wave of invaders over the centuries. He also treated _her_ as his equal. The potion that he had drunk had made him see how he had acted towards her and his mother, and he had changed his behavior drastically in that regard. Additionally, the passage of time had made him understand that his specific _goals_ —wearing the crown and sitting on the Muggle throne—were unrealistic. But his general opinions about what the law and culture of the wizarding population should be, and who should govern it, had not altered that much.

Interestingly to Hermione, she realized that hers _had._ She was able to see with clear eyes that Malfoy and Lestrange were introducing destructive policies to the wizarding population, in the name of promoting their own ancestry as superior to the “churls” and “barbarians.” It hardly mattered to Hermione that she shared that ancestry in part. What they were trying to do to wizards and—especially—witches in Britain was appalling, and now that Tom did not regard people as potential enemies based purely on their national background, she was in agreement with him about the government of the wizarding population.

The two of them stood hand-in-hand at the center of the Roman temple, watching and waiting. Tom’s friends—the “Lords of Beltane,” as they had called themselves—would arrive soon. In a minute, the pair started to hear footsteps. Then people started to emerge through the trees: Theodore Nott, Marcus Flint, Rob Wilkes, Edgar Fawley, and Cormac Avery.

“My friends and allies,” Tom said formally, welcoming them as they stepped onto the cracked stone surface.

Edgar Fawley gazed at Hermione, then Tom. “We missed you last night, my lord.”

Hermione noted that the young man still spoke to Tom with a noble address. He did _not,_ however, call Tom by a _royal_ title.

Tom nodded. “I was with Lady Hermione. We lit our own fire. I did tell you that I was going to do that.”

“You did,” Fawley agreed. “I just wondered… ours, the fire that the five of us lit, did not burn as brightly as I think it would have if you had been there to help it along. Your magic has always been… superior.”

Tom smirked. “That is very true. But the fact is, Hermione and I put a charm upon a different part of our lives this time. We’re _marrying_ in a month, Fawley. And while I have personal confirmation that a person _can_ use Beltane magic for something else, the holiday itself… well, our druid ancestors meant the ritual to be about that.” He eyed Fawley and the other boys. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate for us to be present at _your_ fire… unless your fiancées were also there, those of you who are engaged? I assume not, though.”

“I _asked_ Daphne,” Marcus Flint groused, “and she wanted to come—she is fully in support of us—but she said she needed to keep an eye on her sister.”

Hermione’s ears pricked up. “Is Draco Malfoy still pursuing Astoria Greengrass?”

Flint scowled at the ground. “According to her, he’s been emboldened by the end of his betrothal with Lest—Lady Adelaide, and the fact that they haven’t found a new witch for him yet. Daphne is afraid they will try to elope as soon as Malfoy finishes his schooling, which should be next year, like the rest of us. Except yourself and Lord Thomas,” he added.

Tom considered this. “In a year, things may be very different. Frankly, haven’t we all intended that the Malfoy family should be deposed? If Lord Lucius does not rule anything except Malfoy Manor—or Godric’s Hollow—then what does it matter if they marry? Of course,” he reconsidered, “it could be dangerous for them to talk and conspire while a war is ongoing, in the meantime, so I think she is right to try to prevent it.”

Flint nodded. “You say that in a year, things may be different. You expect that it will happen that soon?” He sounded worried, and the other four looked concerned as well. “We’ll still be at Hogwarts!”

Tom took Hermione’s arm, pulled her close to him, and stared out grimly. “My lady mother and my stepfather expect that Malfoy— _Armand_ Malfoy—and Lestrange will try to attack soon after our wedding. Hermione feared that the ceremony itself would be targeted, which makes perfect sense… but we mean to prevent that. Apparently, Malfoy never wanted to admit Lady Hermione to Hogwarts at all and never got over the ‘humiliation’ that a noble family actually took advantage of the loophole that he himself left in wizarding law at the time.”

“A loophole that he has since eliminated,” muttered Wilkes.

Tom nodded, his brows descending in irritation at that memory. “Yes. Among the many vile ‘laws’ that he created over the past four years was one that would end that possibility for anyone who came after Hermione. And with the two members of the former Wizards’ Council who could restrain him now dead, he and Lestrange will continue their offenses. Yes, I think a wizarding war is going to break out this summer,” he concluded darkly. “So do your parents. That is why they allied with my mother. If we’re right… then Hogwarts may be closed to pupils while it rages on.”

The five young wizards stared ahead. “Then Daphne is _definitely_ right to keep an eye on her sister,” Flint said.

Wilkes nodded firmly. “It is a good thing that we are all from titled families that have libraries of magic. I feel bad for the common students if the school closes.”

Hermione gazed at the young man with surprise. So, she noted, did Tom. “It would be unfortunate,” she said, “but at least everyone could return as soon as the danger ended.”

“And as for that danger,” Tom said, “my mother’s plan is to move Slytherin’s serpent—yes, I found it,” he said as the five boys collectively gasped, “and I don’t want to discuss that any further.” He squeezed Hermione. “The plan is to move it to Parselhall… well, more accurately, to a vault far below Parselhall that’s carved into the hillside. My royal ancestor housed a dragon in it, long ago… but again, I’ll say no more about that. It is an unpleasant topic. We already have very powerful wards on the castle, and I would recommend that your families all do the same. My mother has written to me, and my family and I agree that Lestrange should be killed first, if possible. It would leave Malfoy vulnerable. We should attempt to take his fief even before that. He has left a regent in charge of it, _Carrow,_ in fact, the traitor, because Malfoy has Lestrange waiting on him like a servant in that demeaning Norman custom for nobles.”

The boys scoffed derisively at that.

“After that… we shall see.”

* * *

“You did not tell them about your theory regarding Malfoy, or about what you discovered from Weasley,” Hermione said to him after they were alone again inside the castle.

Tom gazed at her. “I can’t prove my theory about Malfoy. It’s just a hunch. Of course, I did have some Gaunt ancestors who had the gift of Divination… their powers of insight were very good… but I have no evidence. And as for Weasley’s plot, I have not heard back from my mother about how Lord Regulus took it. His family would have a better idea of how to deal with the Muggle crown, since Arcturus sat on the Wizards’ Council. It’s better not to tell them about that until we have an idea of what to do about it.” He scowled, turning his head to stare past her. “There _is_ an obvious choice, but I don’t think any of us want blood on our hands unless it is the blood of traitors, murderers, and rapists. And the Weasleys, though contemptible, are not that.” He sighed. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Well, I am glad that killing an entire family over a scheme you dislike is not something you want to do,” Hermione said tartly. “We would be no better than our enemies.”

Tom turned to her at once, his dark eyes wide. “No! I wouldn’t do that. I think we need to consolidate power and influence among wizarding nobles, and then present ourselves as the choice of the magical population. The Weasleys have made their alliances in secret, with only James Potter and perhaps a few others aware. The Muggle king would surely respect a demonstration of political power over a secret promise. And if it comes to it,” he concluded, “we could use the Imperius Curse and mind magic on the Muggle king to change his mind.”

Four years ago, Hermione would have been appalled at that suggestion. Now, she considered it a reasonable possible solution to a thorny problem.

* * *

_Four weeks later._

The pupils who would be acclaimed as masters lined up in the Great Hall, dressed in their best robes. Those who were from noble or knighted families wore their family crests somewhere on their persons. Hermione fingered hers as she stood beside Tom. Her family’s heraldic animal was the otter. She had generally avoided wearing it since she came to Hogwarts, since it had been clear to her from literally the first evening in Slytherin House that Muggle nobility meant nothing to wizard nobles. However, with only a few more days remaining of being a Granger, she decided that this was the occasion to wear it.

Their alliance had changed minds, she thought. Not many, but some. Tom’s own friends had been perfectly polite to her at the final Lords of Beltane meeting that she had attended. Their families had entered into alliances with Lady Merope without making any inappropriate demands or even criticizing the betrothal. The _Black_ family, of all people, had accepted the idea at long last, to the extent of seeking an alliance with Tom’s future heir. _I understand exactly why Lord Malfoy did not want me to come,_ she thought smugly. _He did not want his precious nobles to have to deal with someone like me. He knew that the minds of some of them would change if they did._ She reached for Tom’s hand and squeezed it, knowing that the gesture was concealed by their wide trumpet sleeves, but in truth, she did not much care if the whole school saw it.

The many pupils who were not finishing were standing in respect to those who were. To Hermione’s surprise, she felt tears come to the corners of her eyes as she met the faces of Harry, Luna, Neville, and Ginevra Weasley. Harry would finish next year, at least—or so she hoped. It would be ideal if they could quickly take out Lestrange, Malfoy, and their toadying vassals this summer with a minimum of fighting, so that the school could continue uninterrupted. If so, Harry would finish in five years as Tom had done—as she herself likely would have done if she had not been estranged from Tom for half of her time here, leaving her with a motive to study obsessively. The others would not be long in following Harry. _They will be fine,_ she thought. _Friendships can last a lifetime, but we ultimately do not live with our friends, usually. We live with our families. And I’ll see Harry and Luna, at least, in a few days anyway._ They had accepted her invitations to the wedding. Neville had wanted to come, but his parents had supposedly needed him in Hogsmeade—and Ginny knew that her mother would not permit it.

The professors lined up. Slughorn was dressed in heavy green robes, and Hermione was quite sure it was not her imagination that he gave her and Tom particularly significant looks as he passed by the new masters of magic. High Master Dumbledore ascended to the podium at the head of the Great Hall and gazed out. He began to speak.

“Tonight, this twenty-ninth day of the month of May, Anno Domini eleven hundred forty-seven, we gather here to recognize those scholars who, after years of study, are now acclaimed masters in the art of magic.”

A thrill went up and down Hermione’s body, and although she had meant to remain solemn and staid, a smile burst onto her face at these words. _I am a master of magic,_ she thought, holding her wand aloft. _He has declared it with the power of his word. Nothing can ever take that away. Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange can never take this from me._

Tom squeezed her available hand and they exchanged quick, proud glances. They had long awaited this night, and at last it had come. Hermione was so glad that they could really, truly share it, now that it had.

* * *

Hermione’s parents came to Parselhall the day after she and Tom left Hogwarts. It was strange seeing them again, she thought as she greeted them beside Merope, Severus, and Tom. They had been out of her life for so long. Her mother had more grey in her hair than Hermione remembered the last time she had seen them.

Their presence at the castle meant that Hermione was unwilling to spend the night with Tom again until their wedding night. She knew that no real harm would come of it even if her parents caught them, but it would cause needless embarrassment. It was not a huge sacrifice, being only a few days.

She was more surprised to see Lady Merope’s present condition. Although she was only six months with child, the fact that she was having twins meant that she looked much farther along. _This_ could not be hidden, Hermione thought with some dismay. There were magical glamour charms, but it was possible to detect their presence. Every guest would see Merope’s condition, and from there, the news would spread.

Hermione sighed as she thought of this. She had felt foolish about it at the time, but when she had her monthly cycle about a week ago, it had made her sad. She had really thought that being intimate with Tom on Beltane, next to a Beltane fire, would result in a pregnancy, and after Tom’s assurance that night, she had come to welcome the idea. It was a disappointment to bleed, for once. _I was taking the potion,_ she thought, _but still… my mother had trouble conceiving… and so did women on my father’s side of the family. I will give it time… I will take the fertility potion now… but it would be unfair, in a way, for a thirty-five-year-old woman who experienced a damaging childbirth to have twins, while a healthy sixteen-year-old has difficulty._

Lady Merope had decided to tell Lord and Lady Granger only a part of the truth about the current danger, so they knew that the Wizards’ Council had been reduced to Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange, and they knew that those two men and their vassals were very displeased that the wedding was actually going to take place. They did not know the true reason that Merope had wedded Snape. They certainly did not know that the young man their daughter would marry was a kinslayer. With an explanation of the circumstances, Lord Granger might understand, but it was still a topic that they all deemed better to avoid.

The same was true for several topics of a magical nature. At the head of _that_ list was the Chamber of Slytherin, of course—but Hermione also had no particular desire to inform her family that their adversary was probably under a self-imposed, unbreakable curse that came from drinking the blood of an innocent creature, nor did she intend to mention the fact that witches and wizards could literally divide their souls and encase them in objects. These were issues that Muggles could not help them with, in any case.

Hermione noticed that her father was visibly frustrated about something, but that he did not seem inclined to talk about it. She managed to corner her mother the night before the wedding—or, rather, her mother came to her to have a mother-daughter talk about the momentous occasion. For all the distance that had opened up between her and her parents over four years, Hermione felt a flood of affection for her mother at this gesture.

In Hermione’s bedchamber—the last night she would sleep in it—they gazed at the gown that she would wear the following day. It was two shades of green, a dark green outer robe and a leaf green inner one, with Celtic knots in the same leaf green attached to the edges of the outer shell, and little flowers picked out in gold next to these decorations. Although not unheard of among Muggles either, green wedding robes were a wizarding custom, she had learned; the color symbolized fertility. The sleeves were almost obscenely wide, a flagrant display of luxury, but Hermione supposed that one’s wedding day was an appropriate occasion for that. She would also wear a belt of rich brown silken cord, loosely knotted in front. She had decided to put on the opal necklace that Tom had given her for her birthday during their first year at Hogwarts.

“You will be a lovely bride,” Lady Granger said kindly, putting an elegant hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione met her mother’s eyes and managed a smile. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I suppose so. And I thank you.”

“He has been very devoted to you,” the older woman said. “I have made a point of observing it since your lord father and I arrived. I assume, then, that the two of you resolved your difficulties.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, the weak smile blossoming into a broad one. “We have been devoted again for the past six months. We care very much about each other, after all this time.”

“I am glad to hear it. It is what I hoped for, four years ago. This is why we wanted you to have a long betrothal and for it to begin with friendship. It’s of course paramount to secure a good match and an alliance that will provide mutual benefit, but we knew that we also wanted you and your future husband to be fond of each other.” She gazed at the wedding gown with satisfied pleasure. “And I am glad to see, as well, that her ladyship has established herself as a noblewoman and has strong alliances with others. I know that she is worried about enemies, but that is just a fact of life for people of our class. In fact… I think that nobles with magic have it easier. She explained to me how she has sealed this castle against invaders. We cannot do that.”

Hermione had not thought about it from that point of view in a long time, but she realized that it was true. For all their fears and worries, Lady Merope, Lord Severus, Tom, and their allies had a distinct advantage over those whose security had to be based purely on the physical strength of a fortress and clever situating of its defenses.

“I noticed that Father was worried about something,” Hermione ventured. “Is everything all right at Castle Grange?”

Lady Granger pursed her lips. “Everything is well,” she said. “Your cousin Charles has complained about the size of your dowry and the fact that the Riddles are not a family with whom the Grangers have ever allied in any respect, marital, defensive, trade, anything.” Hermione’s eyes grew wide in protest, and her mother quickly continued. “Don’t worry, my dear! Your father has put him in his place. It is likely that he wanted more money for himself one day when he inherits the title. The transaction has already been made, so it is quite safe. As for his other objection… your father explained to him that we made the arrangement because of your magical ability, but I don’t think your cousin likes magic.”

Hermione’s heart sank at that. “What do you mean?” she exclaimed. She thought of her childhood, of meeting her first cousins—double first cousins—for family events. They had always gotten on well… but then, that was before she knew what her abilities were.

“He seemed frightened of it when your lord father explained what it was. That is understandable, I suppose, from his perspective… it was startling for your father and me to learn of it four years ago… but he also suggested that he did not think people of magic should be in the nobility.”

Hermione’s face hardened. “That is unfortunate for him, then,” she said icily.

Lady Granger held her daughter. “I think that in time, he will learn more about it. Give him time—and don’t worry about it now! He cannot do anything, and tomorrow is your wedding day.”

* * *

Elsewhere in the family wing, Tom was in the small family parlor with his mother. Severus was in the potions laboratory, brewing the Draught of Fertility for Hermione for the following night, and considerately giving them the chance to be alone before the important day. Tom stared ahead, thinking about all that had happened since they had come to this castle—since he had met Hermione. _I am lucky to have her,_ he thought. _It was fate that our families were at the same Wizards’ Council meeting that day, because otherwise we probably never would have met, but I am lucky that my own behavior did not drive Hermione away from me forever._

He turned to his mother. Her pregnancy was progressing healthily. Twins were often born early… but this was still too early for them to survive, even with magical healing. He hoped that they made it. Although he still did not like to think of his mother in bed with Severus Snape, his solution was that he just wouldn’t do so. He was glad that she had a husband now who respected her and was good to her without that consideration being dependent on a lie.

“Mother,” he finally managed, “I just wanted to tell you… I’m sorry about that thing I said in our fight last summer. I had no idea… though really, I _should_ have. I knew that at least two of our ancestors practiced incest, and I knew that the Gaunts did some evil things. And I could tell that it was upsetting you when I kept calling you a hypocrite and demanding answers.”

Merope gazed at him, one hand resting on her pregnant abdomen. “I accept your apology,” she said crisply. “I shielded you from that, to the extent possible, so even if you ‘should’ have known, to you it was something you had read had happened once by mutual consent six hundred years ago. To me, it was something I grew up knowing about, and as I reached adulthood, it became a threat I regarded with personal terror and dread.” She sighed. “That said, you were correct that I arranged a betrothal for you because I had a bad experience with a ‘love match.’ I would not have done it if you and Hermione had not formed a friendship that day, though. It just seemed the right thing to do—to spare you what I suffered when your father left me, to help Hermione go to Hogwarts and assume her rightful place in the world, and to cement your friendship.”

He smiled wryly at her. “Well, I can say now that I’m glad you did it—but that’s because it’s Hermione.” The smile faded. “I hope it works out just as well for our future child. I understand the reasoning—the Black alliance is a critical one—but I hope it works out.” He considered something. “Will Regulus Black and his family be here?”

“Yes,” Merope said. “We were unsure about that at first—it’s openly declaring the alliance—but the time has come for secrecy about such things to end. He, the Lady Andromeda, and Lady Nymphadora are expected to come.”

A sudden, dark thought passed through his mind. “And _Pettigrew?”_ he said harshly. “We know that he has told Malfoy compromising information before. You are prepared for _him_ to learn about the Black alliance?”

Merope’s lips thinned, though it was not directed at Tom. “I have discussed this with Severus. He will be seated amongst the guests. He will not be allowed to roam free at any point. And my hope is that being included in such a way, and permitted to see such important things as the presence of Lord Regulus, will ensure his loyalty.”

Tom stared ahead once again. He hoped his mother was right.

* * *

The guests began to arrive quickly the next morning. The six wizarding noble families with whom Merope was openly allied came, bringing their sons—and, in the case of the Greengrasses, daughters. Luna Lovegood’s father then turned up, with his daughter and Harry Potter in tow. To Merope and Severus’s surprise, Sirius and Marlene Black came with this group, though the woman’s young daughter was not there.

“We left her with Lily Potter,” the newlywed witch explained. “Such a good friend!”

Severus smiled thinly, not wanting this particular person to be a topic of discussion at all.

Lord and Lady Granger were greeted politely by everyone, though it was apparent to Merope and Severus that the pureblood nobles were rather nonplussed at the experience of greeting Muggles as social equals, even Muggles with land and titles.

However, the most unexpected task was keeping Lovegood away from everyone else. His behavior was very odd, and he seemed to have little notion of how to behave in public. Luna herself was not so awkward and gauche as he was, but neither would she hear a word of criticism of him. It was ultimately left to Harry to keep him distracted, who—after four years of being in Slytherin House—understood very well the need to keep such a man from causing a scene.

At last, the Black contingent arrived. Lord Regulus came to the door with great dignity, his lady wife and… _presumed…_ daughter next to him. Father Alphard Black emerged through the entrance with them, his clerical materials in hand. Then, to the utter shock of everyone present, Lord Orion and Lady Walburga strode through the doors and surveyed the Great Hall with measured, aristocratic gazes.

The assembled wizard nobles took in the sight with a collective intake of breath. Merope and Severus were quite pleased; that it was such an evident surprise meant that Tom and Hermione had kept their word to Regulus and had told no one. Truth to tell, they themselves were shocked at the appearance of Regulus’s parents—Lord and Lady Black, _the_ Blacks of wizarding England, the heads of the great family. Merope was especially surprised at the presence of the lady. She was known to be a devout believer in blood purity. What must she think of being _here,_ in the home of blood-traitors, to observe the wedding of a half-blood and a Muggle-born? Her face was vaguely curdled, Merope noted.

And yet, here she was. Perhaps she did not mind the prospective alliance so much if it involved the offspring of a son who was already out of the line of inheritance and his common-born wife, the widow of a Muggle.

Sirius and Marlene noticed their family’s approach. His face twisted in dismay as his intelligent mind quickly worked out just what they were doing here and why. He sneered at his parents and brother and addressed himself to Lady Andromeda and his priestly uncle instead.

“I am surprised to see you here,” he said gruffly.

“Not as surprised as I am to see you,” she replied. “My felicitations to you and your wife, of course.” She smiled genuinely at Marlene. “I am pleased to meet you… sister.”

“My godson is a friend of the bride and groom,” Sirius growled. “And he lives with us now. They specifically wanted him and his girl here as guests.”

“It is an unconventional noble wedding, to be sure,” Andromeda agreed, “with such a mix of guests, noble and common, wizard and Muggle, but I don’t consider that a bad thing.”

“What of your husband? What does _he_ think? That’s what truly matters, according to the current regime and my erstwhile best friend.”

Andromeda gazed coolly at him. “Regulus sees the matter as I do, more or less. And he has always respected my wishes and opinions, whether he agrees or not. The people we are among today also respect witches. You should not assume that everyone is like James Potter and Armand Malfoy, Sirius.” With that, she lifted her skirts so that they did not drag on the stone floor and sauntered away with her family, leaving him to contemplate her words.

* * *

Hermione clung to her father’s arm happily as he led her down the aisle to the proscenium of the hall, where Father Black and Tom awaited her, dressed in his own new robes of evergreen, grey, and silver. This was quite a green wedding, Hermione thought. Tom was trying his best to keep an undignified grin off his face. Hermione’s pretty green bridal robes accentuated her form very nicely, Tom thought as she walked towards him.

Father Black began his speech, but Tom and Hermione largely paid it little attention. Hermione was thinking of that night when they were fourteen and had consummated the betrothal. According to old wizarding custom, that was a vow equal in magical potency to a wedding such as this one. Tom had—not broken it, exactly; he had not betrayed her for someone else, but he had arguably abandoned her, and he had paid a price for it: He had had to suffer under the sea cave potion’s effects. Now, though, they were pledging to each other not just for their own ears, but before many other people.

Black concluded his remarks about marriage. He held forth a ribbon of green silk, which he allowed Tom and Hermione to wrap around each other’s wrists as they spoke vows of faithfulness to each other. In wizarding weddings, a handfasting ceremony occurred. Merope had told Hermione’s parents about this so they would not be taken aback. It seemed that they had no objection to it if it occurred with the obvious approval of a priest of the Church—but Tom, and now Hermione, knew its older origins.

As he pronounced them husband and wife, the smiles that they had been holding back burst onto their faces against their wills—but at this point, nobody cared, including Tom and Hermione themselves. They exchanged tender kisses and held hands at the front of the hall, gazing out at their guests with those smiles continuing to adorn their young faces.

* * *

A grand feast followed the wedding itself. The crest of House Riddle—a coiled, three-headed snake encircled by a wreath of elder tree leaves—was displayed prominently on a banner on the far wall of the grand dining hall. Hermione, Tom, Merope, and Severus sat at the places of honor at the head table. Next to them were Orion and Walburga Black. Regulus had understood why his parents, rather than he himself, should assume this place of honor; he had already decided to work on his estranged brother now that he had the opportunity to influence him away from that incomparable lout James Potter.

Merope observed the young newlyweds with affection. They spoke in hushed whispers to each other at the table, occasionally glancing furtively outward before returning to their private conversation. She could guess what they were talking about readily enough… but she had not cared that much two and a half years ago, and she certainly did not care now. They were eager to share a bed openly and without fear of detection, which was more than could be said about many couples of their social status.

She glanced at Peter Pettigrew, who, to her dismay, was somewhat off by himself. That was disappointing. She had hoped that Sirius Black, who had supposedly been his friend at Hogwarts, would make overtures to him. _At least he is participating in the revelry,_ she thought.

And revelry it was. The house-elves kept bringing out dishes, all of them selected for their Englishness, many of them with a magical component to their preparation. The guests—including the Grangers—were frankly digging in. For her part, Merope was enjoying dessert, a blackberry pie, rather out of turn—but she wanted it now, due to her pregnancy, and her house-elves cheerfully obliged their mistress’s whims.

A shout rose up from the main guest table, followed by a burst of laughter. It seemed that the same people who had made inappropriate jests and shouts at Merope’s wedding were at it again. Merope’s eyebrows narrowed. Even though she knew that Tom and Hermione had already been intimate, it was a very different matter for Lord Flint, a man her age, to make ribald, bawdy comments about _her son_ and… daughter-in-law.

Severus glanced at her meaningfully. “Would you like me to curse that oaf? I wanted to do it when we were married.”

“Yes, I would like that,” she growled, “but you still mustn’t do it. He’s drunk, and the last thing we need is a duel amongst ourselves.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Severus drawled. He gazed at Tom and Hermione. “At least they are so wrapped up in each other that they are completely oblivious to it.”

“So far,” she said—but in truth, she was very affected by the concern that he took for the young people. He had never had much use for Tom before, but he still felt the affection of a stepfather and the loyalty of being in the same family. Merope reached under the table for his hand, caressing the familiar bony fingers. He was surprised at the sudden gesture but returned the moment of affection with a tender smile of his own.

* * *

Merope and Severus were not entirely correct. Tom and Hermione were well aware of the kinds of jests that their guests were making. They simply chose to ignore them. This was their day, and they had simultaneously, nonverbally agreed to not allow any sort of foolishness to mar it for them. Nor were they strictly whispering about their own anticipation for their wedding night—though that topic was certainly part of their private discussion. But they had other things to talk about as well.

“Now would be the time for anything to happen, if it’s going to happen,” Tom remarked under his breath to Hermione as he gazed across the guest table, where intoxicated nobles and commoners laughed and chattered. “Of course, the wards are secure, and nobody can come in without an escort who does have access.” He smirked and raised his goblet of wine. “To Armand Malfoy’s basilisk-venom-saturated corpse.”

Hermione gasped at his daring—but she hesitantly joined the toast, clinking her goblet against his, a shocked yet wry smile on her face.

“He would probably burst a blood vessel if he knew that the wedding he so reviles the thought of _has already happened,”_ Tom said. “Pity that it may not mean his final death.” He took another sip.

Hermione looked down at her plate. “Let’s not discuss that right now, Tom,” she urged.

He set his goblet down. “Fair enough. What would you like to discuss, my dear?”

Her heart thumped at that. “I don’t actually want to discuss—what you are hinting at— _here.”_

He gazed out the tall windows. The sky was growing dark. “I don’t blame you,” he said abruptly. “I would rather act upon these thoughts.” He turned to his mother and whispered something in her ear. Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks as he drew away from his mother and Merope gave her a cheeky smile.

Smiling, the baroness rose. She lifted her wand and placed it against the side of her throat to amplify the sound of her voice. The guests, including the sodden, ribald wizarding noblemen, hushed as she began to speak.

“My friends, my allies, my assembled honorable guests, I regret to interrupt your feast, but my son and daughter-in-law wish to retire,” she said with as much dignity as she could put into the words. Scattered hoots sounded through the room. Lord Flint applauded for a second—and Hermione noted that Tom’s friends all bore lewd smirks on their faces—but at this moment, it did not bother her. The bedding announcement was inherently an invitation to lewdness.

“Let’s get them upstairs, then!” exclaimed a young man—one of Tom’s friends, Hermione guessed.

Many of the guests, not even exclusively the male ones, rushed the head table to try to lift up Tom and Hermione to carry them up to their bedchamber. Hermione’s parents—and the titled Blacks—remained back, rather aghast. Tom had heard of this sort of thing happening before, though, and he was prepared. He drew his wand and pointed it outward, moving his arm in an arc as he regarded the guests menacingly.

“We have this under control,” he said, smirking. “I am _quite_ capable of taking my bride to bed without assistance.” He bowed ironically, and, in the stunned silence that followed for a few seconds, rose upright once again and brought Hermione’s hand to his lips gallantly. Then he raised his free hand in a gesture of farewell for the night.

In preparation for this day, the house-elves and Muggle assistants from the village had set up a different, larger chamber for Tom and Hermione in the family quarters. Tom’s bed was the grander of the two, having been made specially for him when he and his mother first took possession of the castle, so it would be their marriage bed, but the furnishings in this room were a mix of personal items that had belonged to both of them. As he pulled her into the grandly furnished room, she noticed with pleasure that both their animal familiars were already there, having made themselves at home.

They stumbled their way to the large draped canopy bed and threw back the drapes to allow themselves to fall onto the mattress. Hermione climbed on top of Tom and pulled at his robes, her breaths already starting to heave and intensify at the thought of what was to come. It was not even that it was a novelty—it wasn’t, anymore—but there was something special about doing this with him on this particular night.

She had managed to remove his evergreen outer robe, revealing a slate grey inner one, when he gripped her waist and flipped her over. Hovering over her, he swiftly removed the dark green robe she wore, then the leaf green one, leaving her garbed in only her underclothes.

“I cannot quite believe that this day has come,” he growled as he pulled her remaining clothes off and sent them flying. He gazed at her bare body, golden in the candlelight, her only adornments being the opal necklace and marriage rings she wore.

She reached for his grey robe, but he took her wrists and gently moved them away, regarding her with a patient, wry, teasing smirk. “Not yet, my love,” he said, his words almost a hiss. He gazed at the bedside table on her side, where a gold goblet and a sealed, opaque stone bottle rested potently. “I think you should take a look at that while I remove my remaining clothes.”

Hermione drew in her breath as she sat upright and eased over to that side of the bed. The bottle was sealed by magic—Severus Snape’s magic, she recognized as she broke the seal with the correct charm. She picked it up and poured it into the goblet, sure she knew what was inside—and she was not mistaken. A lush, healthy green potion sparkled cheerfully, a leaf green liquid very close to the color of her robes, with silver and gold sparks occasionally flashing in it.

“The Draught of Fertility,” she said.

Tom gazed at her with lustful impatience. “Yes. He was working on it last night.” He crawled across the bed to rest next to her and trailed his hand across the heated skin of her thighs as she drank from the goblet. It was almost distracting—but not quite as distracting as _looking_ at him and seeing just how ready for her that he was—

The potion tasted very good, sweet but not too sweet, like a pleasing mix of summer fruit. Hermione tipped the goblet upright to get the last drops, and then set it back down on the table. She resealed the stone bottle; if anyone tampered with it, she would recognize that the last spell used was not her own magic the next time she opened the bottle. The potion seemed to make her entire body feel warmer—and more than that. When she gazed at Tom again, she could not look at him for more than a half-second. Immediately she lunged for him.

He was ready. He caught her in his arms and pulled her close, planting a deep, possessive kiss on her lips, parting them forcefully with his tongue, plundering her mouth with all the desire of years of anticipation.

They fell onto the pillows locked in that embrace, that heated, breathy clutch. Tom grabbed her around the waist again, holding her gently but firmly, and pushed her into the mattress as he mounted her.

His right hand trailed down her sides as he gazed at her in awe and unmitigated desire. His lips parted ever so slightly, and his nostrils flared as he stroked her side. “Hermione,” he murmured, “I am going to attempt to make up for those two years tonight.”

“You already have.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I think not.” With a wicked grin, he descended on her with his tongue and lips, kissing his way down her body, making her moan and thrash underneath him, until he reached her heated juncture. She was more than ready for him—and at that moment, Tom wanted to take her at once, to sate his own desires as well as hers, but he had made up his mind. He plunged his tongue into her core, making her cry out and reach for his black hair with her hands.

She caught one fistful and pulled. He yelped, startled. She had not pulled any out, but…. Tom reached for his wand. With a single flick, Hermione’s fingers were out of his hair, her wrists were above her head, and with another flick, the rope belt that she had worn that day wrapped itself around her wrists.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, shocked.

He made no verbal response, but, with a single darkly desirous smirk, licked her most sensitive spot with his tongue. She hissed and strained to free herself, but even as she was bringing her bound wrists over her head, Tom slid up and propped himself over her on his elbows. He stared at her, his dark gaze seemingly serious, all vestiges of a smile now gone from his face—but she knew it was a front.

“I cannot believe you did that,” she said, trying to free her wrists.

He merely gazed into her eyes as she struggled in vain. The intensity of his gaze sent shudders of longing down her.

“Tom, for God’s sake, free my wrists or take me—or both!”

He picked up his wand again and regarded it with seeming contemplation for a moment. Underneath him, Hermione whimpered and twitched at the sight. That was it. He pointed it at her wrists, cast a spell to untie the rope, and thrust hard into her in the next second. She grabbed his back at once with her freed hands, clutching, gasping as one as they moved together.

It did not take long for either of them to climax. Hermione had hers first, reaching for his back again as the waves of pleasure and relief overtook her. Seeing her like this—his _wife—_ sent Tom over the edge. He buried his head in the space between her neck and shoulder as he emptied himself into her. They clung together, sweaty and hot and utterly, completely happy.

That was merely the first time of the night for them.

* * *

Several hours later, when the guests had either retired to their guest chambers or had—in a few cases—been hauled off to their chambers in drunken sleep, Merope passed by the newlyweds’ shared chamber. She was the only person who had had nothing to drink. Severus was awaiting her in their own room, but for now, she wanted to check on the young pair. She listened at the keyhole of the door. There was no noise except the sounds of heavy breathing. Satisfied and happy, Merope turned and walked toward her bedchamber.

“Well,” Severus said, taking her in his arms as she entered, “that is over.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. She began to disrobe, noting the fact that he was already dressed in nothing except a loose black robe of thin silk.

“And now, we get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize what probably everyone (minus maybe one or two) was expecting/fearing, but I wasn't going to do that to you! These kids deserved this day.


	45. A Snake with Three Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, and thank you again! This chapter is a mix of intrigue, more secrets revealed, and what I hope I wrote as a happy event.

Hermione awoke the next day curled into Tom’s embrace, the morning sun bearing down upon them through the window. It was almost _too_ warm, she thought, stretching and disentangling herself from him, awakening him in the process. He blinked awake. As the situation dawned on him, he gazed at her almost-bare form—she wore only a loose sleep robe, open in front—and smiled in a lopsided, possessive, smug way.

“What a lovely morning,” Hermione said, deliberately looking away from him. She could tell by the amount of sunlight that it was well into mid-morning, and they ought to be out of bed. If he convinced her to stay between the sheets, their ultimate appearance could be very embarrassing.

Tom looked disappointed as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, but he realized that they would have plenty of occasions to be intimate, beginning with that very night. “Yes,” he said, getting out of bed. “It is.”

They got dressed and went to the door, but when Tom opened it, they found themselves looking at an excited female house-elf that had been waiting outside.

“Master and Mistress will have breakfast in their bedchamber!” the elf squealed. “Her ladyship ordered it!”

Tom was suddenly very glad that Hermione had gotten out of bed before they had become… distracted. “Excellent,” he approved. “Is that the case for all the guests?”

The elf nodded. “Many of the guests had too much to drink,” she said in a low voice.

Tom and Hermione did not doubt _that_ for a second.

After the very filling, well-cooked private meal, they finally emerged from their chamber arm-in-arm to go downstairs. It was apparent from the noise that those people who were up and about were congregated in the great hall. The young couple entered the large open space, their arms still linked together closely, and offered pleasant smiles at the greetings from their guests.

Merope and Severus were also standing together as a couple as they mingled with the guests. She was conversing with Lord Orion Black, Tom noted—and Regulus Black was in that same small knot of people. Their discussion momentarily subsided as Tom and Hermione approached. Orion’s face became faintly pinched at Hermione’s presence, but he said nothing.

“My lord,” Tom said to him.

Lord Black nodded. “My congratulations and felicitations on your marriage. I have been speaking with Lady Riddle about some very unsettling information that you discovered from one of the Weasley brats.”

So Regulus _had_ told his parents about the Weasleys’ alliance with the Muggle pretender. Tom wondered how many of their allies knew it now.

“Two of my distant cousins married into the Weasley and Longbottom families,” Lord Black continued. “The extent of the Longbottoms’ complicity with this scheme is not clear to me, but since the family never exiled that branch, I shall attempt to find it out from them. Given the fact that, for all his airs, Lord Armand Malfoy himself had an alliance with William of Normandy, it is not the worst idea to cultivate a Muggle monarch… but the Weasleys _certainly_ cannot be the representatives of witches and wizards in such a venture. Their views are disgraceful.”

Tom eyed him speculatively. Hermione was quite sure she knew what he was thinking, and at this point, she was thinking it herself. If Lord Black _didn’t_ want to be the next lord of witches and wizards, he certainly was giving the impression that he did. Perhaps the marriage alliance that he and Regulus wanted between Sirius’s future child and Tom’s heir was, contrary to their prior hopes, _not_ intended as a concession to the Riddles’ own ambitions. Perhaps it was meant to be a conciliation for Black’s assumption of the high seat.

Tom was thinking similar thoughts. He realized that they needed the alliance with the respected Black family, but this issue could be a point of friction. He gazed furtively out at the… court, he supposed. The rest of their allies mingled. _These_ families had been allies long before any of the Blacks had— _well, except Regulus,_ he thought. _But they were openly allied with us before he acknowledged it. They entered alliances partly because they wanted us on the high seat, not Orion Black. They could have pledged support to the Blacks at any time if they had wanted that, but they supported Mother instead. Lord Black had better take that into consideration._

He thought once again about the Gaunt family’s royal ancestry. Although it did not seem that he could use it to claim the Muggle throne, perhaps he could use it to claim the Riddles’ right to the _wizarding_ high seat over this ambitious lord.

“We know one of the Longbottoms, my lord,” Hermione spoke up. Lord Black looked surprised that she was the one addressing him, but he kept his countenance. “He is the son of the mayor of Hogsmeade.”

“Ah, in the direct line, then,” said Lord Black. “The family forswore its oath after the Normans came, and in my view that means that they should not be restored to a title, but it is a useful friendship to have, I suppose.” He gazed at the Riddles and Snape. “Lady Bellatrix Lestrange harmed those Longbottoms several years ago.”

Hermione suddenly remembered Neville telling her about that. He had said that she had believed his parents knew some Black family secrets. Suddenly she wondered what they were.

“In view of this, it may be difficult to secure their support. Then, too, Frank Longbottom is the first cousin removed of Arthur Weasley, through the Black line. Weasley’s father and Longbottom’s grandfather married Black sisters.”

Hermione was startled. _How can I have known them for over three years and not realized that?_ she thought in dismay. She had known that the Longbottoms and Weasleys both had antecedents who had married into a cadet branch of the sprawling Black family, but she had somehow never put the pieces together. Suddenly it made perfect sense to her why Harry’s father would have preferred that he court Ginny Weasley. There was _already_ a close relationship between the Weasleys and the Longbottoms, whereas the Potters were not so connected.

“So I do not have any expectations of securing their support,” Black concluded. “I do, however, hope to learn whether they are complicit.”

* * *

Most of the guests, including Lord and Lady Black, departed that afternoon for their own homes. The only one who remained was Regulus Black. Even his wife and daughter had gone.

When Hermione’s parents prepared to leave, she stayed near them, feeling inexplicably upset at their going. She had not seen much of them for four years, with only brief visits during the summer and some holidays, but they were still her parents, and their departure felt somehow much more permanent now. _It’s because I am married,_ she thought. _That is the reason._

Her father gazed affectionately at her. “I am very happy for you,” he said. “These are good people. Your noble mother-in-law was generous from the very start of our acquaintance, of course, and Lord Severus too, but I am glad that Lord Thomas has grown into a worthy nobleman and that the allies of the family are unlike those vile wizards we met that day.”

Hermione managed a smile. Her father was a bit too kind about the Riddles’ allies—most of them tolerated her presence, yes, but still held to blood purity for their own families. Still, that was something, and it _was_ more than could be said of the Malfoys and Lestranges. At least they respected her as a witch.

Lady Granger spoke up. “And do not worry about your cousin. We will try to persuade him to view magic differently, and the positive experience of your wedding should help in that regard. It may be that we can even have a family visit later this summer!”

Hermione smiled. “I would like that.”

They left soon after this brief conversation, making their farewells to the Riddles—the _other_ Riddles, Hermione thought with a smile—and Snape. Lady Merope had offered her house-elves to assist them back, but they had come in their own carriage, and that was how they would return. Snape had gone to the carriage house to place a charm of protection upon it before they left. When they passed through the great doors of the castle, arm-in-arm, Hermione felt a pang again. _It’s quite all right,_ she thought, heading back through the great hall somewhat dejectedly. _We’ll write to each other much more now that I am not at Hogwarts._

* * *

Severus, Merope, and Regulus awaited the young newlyweds in the little parlor. Once they were all seated, Tom spoke first. “I am curious about your father, Lord Regulus,” he began, “and I might as well speak bluntly. Does he wish to replace Lord Malfoy?”

Merope and Severus raised their eyebrows at him, but the question was asked, and there was nothing they could do now.

Regulus considered the question seriously. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I think it’s possible. But at the same time, he has never openly coveted the high seat in my hearing. The Head of House Black has always been overlord of wizards in the north of England, and that is what he anticipated his whole life.”

“I am curious about something else,” Hermione ventured hesitantly, “and I understand if it is not something that you can tell. The ‘Black family secrets’ that Bellatrix Lestrange believed the Longbottoms knew—do you know what they are?”

“That is a very good question,” Tom added. “If there _is_ anything compromising, it’s best if we all know about it instead of being surprised someday.”

Regulus smiled darkly. “Oh, _that_ I have no objection to telling you. Indeed, Lord Thomas, your lady mother and lord stepfather already know a little of it.”

“We do?” Merope said, surprised.

He nodded. “I told you the day that your first husband died.” The entire family looked visibly uncomfortable at that, so Regulus continued. “I have _not_ told the young people, of course, and I don’t suppose either of you have? No? Then very well.” He addressed himself to Tom and Hermione. “This may be shocking to you—especially you, Lady Hermione.”

She wondered what she was to hear. It couldn’t be any more shocking than the history of the Gaunts.

“Before I was married, I had a male lover. A _Muggle-born_ one, in fact,” he added as Hermione’s brown eyes widened.

“You did _not_ tell us that part,” Merope murmured.

“I didn’t? I am sorry, then. His name was Dirk Cresswell, and he was Muggle-born… at least, apparently so. Given the fact that his mother lived in the village of the late Lord Lestrange—the father of the current one—and that he was known to have the same vile habits involving Muggle women as his firstborn son, _and_ that she died suddenly in an ‘accident’ shortly after Dirk’s birth, I do wonder.”

All four of the family members were appalled. “Are there _any_ Lestranges who aren’t utter degenerates?” Tom exclaimed. “Other than him, if he was one,” he added quickly.

“Adelaide is an unpleasant person, but I don’t think she’s a ‘degenerate,’” Hermione murmured to him.

“Dirk’s mother brought him to Hogsmeade before she was killed. That is how I met him at all—weekend outings at Hogwarts. No, the Longbottoms never fostered him, but they knew him. He was raised as a worker at the bookbinder’s, but he displayed a gift for languages, so he also helped with translations. He married very young—thirteen, I think—and fathered two sons, but his wife died in childbirth. He and I had a two-year relationship after I was out of Hogwarts, and Armand Malfoy found out about it and ordered his death.” He sighed.

“I’m very sorry,” Hermione said. “What happened to his sons?”

“I’m coming to that. Thank you, by the way,” he said, then took a deep breath and continued his narrative. “At some point, Lady Bellatrix heard the rumor that her husband might have had a bastard half-brother, and she regarded it as a threat even if he had died—maybe _especially_ since he died. There is a younger Lestrange brother, but he is not fit to rule anything. He is mad or half-witted, and I have heard that Rodolphus cursed him when they were younger to remove a rival. He is no threat—but Lady Bellatrix definitely regarded the possible existence of a bastard line as a threat to her daughter.

“My grandfather Lord Arcturus also knew of my relationship with Dirk. He protected the little boys, who were not even able to read when I got their father killed.”

“Oh, Lord Regulus, you didn’t—” Hermione began to say.

Regulus shook his head sadly. “My grandfather brought them into the service of the family and gave them a new surname. They were tutored in magic privately. No one knows that except my parents, my wife and me, and now the four of you.”

“We will tell no one,” Merope swore.

“He also made a bargain with Lord Malfoy, who wanted to expose me. Bargain… or blackmail,” he said heavily. “I wish I knew what secret of Malfoy’s he took to his grave.”

“Could it be unicorn blood or a Horcrux?” Tom asked. “Lord Severus sent those questions by your house-elf, before you came to fear that the Malfoy elf had been killed.”

“If Lord Malfoy uses either—or both—of those types of magic, it is possible that my grandfather knew it,” Regulus agreed. “In any case, Bellatrix heard that ‘the Blacks’ were covering up the existence of an illegitimate line of Lestranges because they meant to use this line to depose Rodolphus and betray her, their own kin. That second part is utterly false; my grandfather just wanted to protect two innocent children from murder. Because Dirk had lived in Hogsmeade, she assumed the Longbottoms were part of this. In truth, they knew nothing of his possible parentage. I am sure they do _now,_ of course, but only because of her own actions. In any case, there is no way to prove that Dirk’s sons are Lestranges by blood, and now, they don’t even know what their real surname is.” Regulus’s voice was exceedingly bitter.

“How deeply fitting, then, that Bellatrix and her daughter are now in hiding, and stand no chance of inheriting any of the Lestrange holdings,” Tom said.

“Don’t gloat about that. Lord Rodolphus is a terrible person,” Merope chided him.

“So is she.”

“Her daughter is the one I pity,” Regulus said. “I suspect they are with the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow, but I wish that she trusted her other aunt enough to live with us. I fear that she and young Draco will die needlessly in what is likely coming.”

“The wedding guests know to be silent,” Severus said, “but the date that we gave out publicly for the wedding is merely a fortnight away, and there is the possibility that someone will slip up. They also saw the proof that my lady wife is with child. We need to be prepared. Lord Regulus, your father intends to ask the Longbottoms about the Weasley plot to ally with the Muggle pretender. Do make sure that he specifically finds out if Albus Dumbledore is party to this—if he can.”

“And depending on how they react, you might raise the possibility of allying with us,” Merope said. “Your lord father does not think the Longbottoms could be persuaded to ally with your own family, but their son is a friend of my daughter-in-law, and the _Riddle_ family never did anything to them. I do not know who the Weasleys think they are, but it is entirely unacceptable of them to trade away treasure that is not theirs and make concessions to a Muggle monarch that would affect all witches and wizards. If any such treating is to occur, there must be others who have a seat at the table.”

“I agree,” Regulus said. His brow creased. “It’s really very odd that the Weasleys would do something like this. I do not doubt the truth of it; your son learned it by Legilimency and it does fit with the clue that my grandfather tried to track down before he died. Still, I always understood them to take pride in their poverty, since they used to have a title and lost it when their grandfather or great-grandfather would not swear to Armand Malfoy.”

Tom spoke up. “I was surprised at first as well. The older Weasleys—well, the middle ones, the older ones of the group I knew from Hogwarts—made it plain that they considered it dishonorable to try to improve their station. The twins had no objection to the idea of earning gold, but they all seemed to think it disgraceful to rise in rank. In the year before I met you, Hermione, I went to Hogwarts with the Weasley brother who has become a knight. Percival Weasley. It was his final year there, but I did know him. I’ve realized that their actions are not truly inconsistent; we just misunderstood. Taking an oath directly to a Muggle king, one who has no communication with Armand Malfoy? That’s not a problem to the Weasleys. They have no objection to bettering themselves if they can do it that way. It’s Malfoy and his allies that they would never swear to, and they count anyone who did swear to him, even pragmatically, as an enemy.”

* * *

Lord Orion Black made his report to the Riddles by owl surprisingly quickly, and nothing that he had to say was good. The message itself was incongruous with the summery setting in which the family received it, sitting in the middle of an open courtyard in the center of the castle structure.

 

_To Lady Riddle Baroness of Hangleton,_

_I regret that I cannot bring you the sort of news that I hoped, but it is possible, I think, to make certain deductions from the news that I can provide. Hogwarts is inaccessible, and the village itself is heavily warded. The wards on the castle are as strong as those that protect your ladyship’s castle and mine; I cannot enter, and none at the castle will receive me. It is quite convenient for them that they do not offer tutelage during the summer, for they can feign that the castle is empty. It is true that many of the Masters are not there, but I will be astounded if High Master Dumbledore was not._

_I went to Mayor and Mistress Longbottom’s shabby little cottage. They received me coldly. Whether this is because of the attack that my kinswoman Bellatrix Lestrange made upon them years ago, or a political reason, I could not determine. They claimed to know nothing of the Weasleys’ plans and asserted very vehemently that High Master Dumbledore has eminent respect for witches. That may be, but if he is willing to ally with those who do not, his good intentions mean nothing, of course. I am no Legilimens, so I could not determine if they were lying about their own lack of knowledge, but I did not wish to leave them with a memory of my visit in case they were. I modified their memories._

_Knowing that James Potter of Godric’s Hollow, unfortunately a friend of my prodigal son, is likely part of the scheme, I traveled to that town in secret, so as to avoid the attentions of Lucius Malfoy. His cottage is empty except for his wife, whom the reprobate abandoned. His son lives with Sirius and his family now. I presume that Potter the elder is hiding in Hogsmeade or Hogwarts with the rest of the scoundrels—or with the Weasleys themselves._

_My son was not pleased to see me in the least. He too knows of the scheme; his godson told him. He believes that the Longbottoms do support the Weasleys in this, though young Potter insists that their son does not know of it at all. However, despite his own disapproval of Potter’s scheming—and, evidently, the manner in which he left his wife, though he would not provide any details about that—he does not want to take sides against his old friend, preferring neutrality. Nor does anyone know for certain where the High Master of Hogwarts stands, though I think that the fact that the school is sealed against visitors makes it clear. I left with great frustration, needless to say._

_This is how it stands, my lady. I regret that I do not have better news for you._

 

Merope closed her eyes as she passed the letter around. This was bad. It seemed very much to her as though the Friends of the Founders did not want to share power, for whatever reason. Either they distrusted anyone whose family had taken an oath to Armand Malfoy, even those whose lives and families were now in danger from him—or they wanted to exclude the Riddles and their allies because they had differences in values and opinions about how the wizarding population should be ruled. The first explanation meant that they _might_ still be persuadable; the second eliminated that possibility.

“I don’t quite agree with Lord Black,” Hermione spoke up as she finished the letter. “About one thing, at least.” The others looked at her curiously, and she explained. “Hogwarts and Hogsmeade could be warded so securely because of our wedding. The date we gave out publicly was yesterday. And they know that we are at odds with Malfoy. They could have put up the wards because they anticipate war over that.”

Merope considered that. “You could be right,” she said, “and that makes more sense than the theory that they are all hiding because of their own plot. Tom, did you not say that you only learned about it from Legilimency on one of the Weasleys? And that you told no one except Hermione and young Potter?”

Tom nodded. “The lout did not even know what I discovered, either. There isn’t any reason that they should have known their secret is out… as long as Potter hasn’t spread the word far and wide,” he added with a growl. “Though it sounds as if he might have. He told Sirius Black. I hope he truly didn’t tell Longbottom, as he claims.”

“I hope it’s that,” said Severus. “Well, they cannot lock the school away forever. If Malfoy _doesn’t_ act this summer, they’ll have to lower those strict wards.” He glowered. “Black knows what Potter is doing. He knows how Potter treated his wife. He knows that Potter disapproved of _his_ marriage because of the side that his wife’s first husband had died for! And yet, despite all of this, he doesn’t want to work against ‘his friend.’ I would wager gold that he knows _exactly_ where James Potter is and can communicate with him if he wants, and I think that I should go to Godric’s Hollow to persuade him to help us.”

Merope smiled affectionately at her husband. “That is a good idea as long as you aren’t too hard on the man! _Be_ persuasive. Perhaps Tom should go with you—and Peter Pettigrew, since he was Sirius’s friend.”

Severus considered that. “I will not refuse your son if he wishes to go,” he said, “but I don’t want Pettigrew. I do not trust him, and _this_ information is far too sensitive to allow an indiscriminate, self-centered spy of a rat to know.”

Merope looked for a moment as if she wanted to protest, but before she could, she suddenly cried out and doubled over, clutching her abdomen. Fluid suddenly pooled between her legs.

“Merope!” Severus exclaimed, dashing over to hold her. Hermione was quickly on her other side. Tom was stunned for a moment, but he recovered and joined them.

“It’s… time,” Merope gasped. “It’s too early—just seven months—”

“Twins,” Severus said, supporting her under her knees as he picked her up to carry in his arms. “They are usually born early. We are all talented witches and wizards, my dear. It will be fine.”

Tom stepped ahead of them and opened the door. At the end of the corridor was Peter Pettigrew himself. He looked out of breath.

“Pettigrew. My mother is in labor,” Tom said sharply. “If you have a message, it can wait.”

“No, your lordship,” Pettigrew said, wringing his asymmetrically fingered hands. “I was just making the rounds. Can I assist in any way?”

“No,” Severus said brusquely as he swept by the small, pudgy man. With Tom and Hermione following behind, he carried her upstairs and into their bedchamber. He hesitated for a moment but allowed Tom and Hermione in the room.

Severus carried Merope to the grand bed and set her down. “There,” he soothed. “Are you comfortable?”

“What? Of course I’m not comfortable!” she exclaimed indignantly.

Hermione suppressed a chuckle as Severus winced. Tom seemed smugly pleased that his mother had scolded his stepfather, even in the context of birthing pains.

Merope was not at all helpless, despite the pain that she was in. She quickly divested herself of her costly robes and allowed Severus to help her into a loose, simpler one that opened down the front. She did not think for one second about shielding her son and daughter-in-law from the proceedings. They were not children. They were married now, and Hermione was _not_ taking the potion to prevent pregnancy. In fact, she was taking the fertility potion. She would surely experience this herself within the year. Merope wondered for a second about the fact that Hermione herself was apparently not with child, but she could not think for too long about that. Her own pains subsumed her thoughts.

Tom and Hermione sat down in two of the chairs in the room as Severus sent another one flying through the air to land next to her bedside. He sat in it and took his wife’s hand, wincing as she clenched it tightly. She knew what to do better than he did; she had done this once before, whereas he had learned about it only from books.

Her experience did not mean that she did not have worries. “Severus,” Merope said urgently, “you have all your potions, don’t you? They are going to be _so_ small. They will need help—and I remember what happened to me when Tom was born—”

The sudden onset of labor had meant that, in fact, Severus did _not_ have the necessary potions with him, and the laboratory in the castle was locked, so he could not summon them with magic. He gave a quick, pointed look at Tom and Hermione as he reached into his belt purse and tossed a key to them.

Tom was somewhat annoyed at being treated like a house-elf, but Hermione was eager to leave the room. Watching Merope strain in pain as she attempted to push a baby—two babies—out of her body was not a pleasant thing, and it brought up several kinds of personal concerns in Hermione, who had never had a sibling and therefore had not had the chance to see her own mother experience this. It was not something that she looked forward to herself—but at the same time, it _was_ part of her duties as a noblewoman, if at all possible… though _was_ it possible? That was the other personal concern. She had not conceived on Beltane, but she had still been taking the infertility potion. However, she also had not conceived—yet—since she was married and taking the fertility draught.

She and Tom reached the potions laboratory and unlocked the door. As Hermione scoured the shelves and cabinets for potions that Severus might want to have, she was glad that she had a task to distract her from her own unpleasant thoughts.

Tom carried two bottles. He took one from Hermione, allowing her to have a free hand to lock the door behind them, and together they returned to Merope’s bedchamber.

Her labor continued into the late afternoon. In winter, it would have been night, but this was a long, lazy summer day, and darkness came very late. At last, the first baby arrived, with a masterful push from its mother. Severus drew his breath. This baby was tiny indeed, small and scrawny. Hermione almost gasped at its size.

“It’s a girl,” he announced, picking his daughter up effortlessly. He quickly gave the child a dose from one of the bottles. Her breathing eased. Severus then cast a warming charm over the tiny form.

Merope was struggling again, her eyes rolled back in evident fear, her pushes fewer and weaker. The second twin was more resistant. Severus glanced at his daughter, who seemed—for the moment—to be stable, and then at Merope. “I’m going to help this one along,” he said to her in a low voice. He drew his wand and cast a spell on her abdomen that appeared as a broad orange glow.

Within a few minutes, she was pushing once again. The younger twin then emerged into Severus’s waiting hands.

“This one is a boy,” he said, giving the equally tiny baby the same treatment of potions and heating charm. He handed the sister and brother to Merope, who, now that she had finished labor, was relieved and ready.

Her face changed when she saw how small they were and how lightweight once they were in her arms. She held them very close, pulling bedcovers over all but their heads to provide as much warmth as she could. “My little ones,” she murmured. _“Very_ little ones.” She glanced at Severus. “Thank you. I don’t know if I would have gotten through that without you.”

He managed a smile of acknowledgment for her as she began to nurse them.

“You can look if you want to,” Severus said, finally remembering that Tom and Hermione were still there. They got up from their chairs and walked across the room to the bed.

Hermione watched carefully as Tom observed his sister and brother. His face was difficult to read. Like everyone else, he seemed alarmed for the small size of the babies. His brow was creased in contemplation, too, though—as if he were concerned as well about the blood-politics angle. With Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange still in power, Hermione supposed that made sense, as unfortunate as it was that he might be thinking of such a thing at all at this time.

However, he was also manifestly interested in them. He drew closer to his mother and gazed upon them.

“What kind of witch and wizard will you be?” he murmured, touching their bare heads.

“Parselmouths, for one,” Merope replied wryly.

Tom quirked a brow at her.

“It runs true,” she said. “Whatever their other talents are, of _that_ one I have no doubt.” She smiled. “Their names are Eileen and Padrig Snape. These are names from their father’s family,” she added in explanation to Tom and Hermione as Snape’s face lit up in delight.

Tom gazed across the room. A banner of House Riddle hung on the wall, the heraldic device that Merope herself had designed four years ago woven into it. A wreath of elder leaves encircled a green serpent with three heads.

“They have your blood too,” he said quietly, “and the serpent is now as it is meant to be. It has its three heads.”

She gazed at the banner and nodded. “We must write to Father Alphard Black soon to have them christened properly. For now, though, it’s most important to keep them… healthy.”

Tom realized what she had almost said. His face contracted in pain at the thought of the unspoken word. Hermione, who had witnessed that exchange, also realized it. She squeezed his hand in pleasure and approval.

* * *

Little Eileen and Padrig held on. Although their father had to administer health potions and strength restoratives several times a day to them, and the little ones themselves had to be kept warm to the point of discomfort for the adults, to Merope—and Severus, who rarely left her side during this crucial time—it was worth it. All of it. The sweltering heat that their spells produced in the nursery room, already helped along by the warmth of summer; the sweat and stickiness that Merope and Severus dealt with as a result of it; the multiple awakenings at night to nurse the twins—it was worth it.

Merope considered these twins an unlooked-for blessing. It was exceedingly unlikely that she would ever give birth again, but she had not expected to hold a baby of her own in her arms again after Tom had grown too old for that years ago. When she had conceived last November, she had not dared to hope that the pregnancy would actually succeed. For every day of those first few months, she had risen from her bed in dread that she would not be an expectant mother anymore by the next day’s light. Finally, after she had quickened, she had allowed herself to hope. She still had not considered it a near-certainty, but she had allowed herself to consider the possibility.

They were magical. They _were_ a witch and a wizard; of that she was already certain. She had felt their magic during each one’s birth, which was logical; it would be a traumatic and shocking event to the babies, one that they had no way of comprehending, and lashing out with their nascent magic was an instinctive thing for them to do. Tom had done it as well when he was born. These twins had magic, but to their parents, they were magical in a metaphorical sense as well.

Severus was also scarcely able to believe that he was a father—was _definitely_ a father, and could _be_ a father to these little ones. He thought long and often about what he wanted to teach them when they became old enough to learn. Potions, of course—that would be part of the legacy he would give them—but he was also determined that they would learn wisdom in general. _More wisdom than I had as a young man,_ he thought as he cradled them the day after they were born.

Tom and Hermione had their own thoughts about the births. Being somewhat more removed from the experience than the babies’ parents, they thought more about their own, worldly, political worries.

“Before our wedding, Malfoy did not know that your mother was with child,” Hermione said in a low voice one night in bed to Tom. “Now, not even a month later, she has twins.”

Tom gazed ahead into the darkness. “He doesn’t know that. No one does except the four of us—and Father Black, I suppose, but he won’t tell. He is no friend of Malfoy.”

“Still….”

“I’m worried about it too,” Tom confessed. “My mother is very vulnerable now. I’m worried for her, _and_ these twins. And Snape,” he added. “Though he is less vulnerable.”

Hermione rose up and resettled herself on Tom’s chest. He cradled her head.

“We have to do more to protect them,” she said. “Now that she is a nursing mother of two babies that were born very early, that is obviously her first duty, and it’s not fair to expect Severus to do everything. We are masters of magic. We have to do more.”

Tom considered that. “I agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not subscribe to the “Muggle-borns are almost all illegitimate half-bloods” fan theory. My theory is that magic capability requires a certain combination of genes that could fit several possible places on the chromosomes (replacing what, in the real world, are placeholders that don’t do anything), that purebloods and even half-bloods have a lot of duplicate sequences, and that Muggle-borns’ parents both have incomplete sets. However, Dirk Cresswell’s parentage in this AU is sort of a shout-out to the “Bastard Theory” of Muggle-borns. I mean, even though I myself don’t like it as an explanation of almost _all_ Muggle-borns, that would have happened now and then.
> 
> I think that twins born at 31 weeks could survive, even in the year 1147, if they are cared for by witches and wizards and have innate magic themselves. It probably happened occasionally in the real world too, but I’m invoking “magic” for the plausibility of this.
> 
> And finally, about the chapter title and Tom’s comment from which it’s taken, I guess I’m not even being semi-subtle about it anymore. I’m sorry.


	46. A Blight on the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for deaths of sympathetic characters.** This chapter has been inspired by early events for one of the seven possible playable characters in the video game _Dragon Age: Origins_ , for which my best friend writes fanfics.

The family dining room the next morning was a nexus of activity long after breakfast was over. Severus and Merope were talking in low voices to each other, each of them holding a small baby. Tom was staring over a map that he had laid out across his place setting. Hermione leaned to the left to look at it.

“I think the best thing to do would be to put it into a magical sleep and transport it in some sort of covered wagon to the western coast,” Tom mused, “and then load it into a ship and take it south that way. Parselhall is not _that_ far inland, not nearly as far as Malfoy Manor; we could use the wagon to finish the trip. We would have to hire a ship to ourselves, of course….”

Merope looked up from her conversation. “What about the fact that Hogwarts is closed, and apparently, according to Lord Black, is not receiving guests?”

Tom’s gaze hardened. “Dumbledore wanted the basilisk out of the school. This is a viable plan for getting it out. He didn’t receive a _visitor;_ that’s different to receiving an owl carrying a letter about something he had already requested himself.” He glowered. “And he has no right to keep _our_ magical property, in any case.”

Hermione gazed down at the map. “And then… we take Castle l’Etrange.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “That’s become a bit more complicated. Not the logistics of taking it—they’re the same as they always were—but what to do with it once we have taken it, now that Lady Bellatrix and her daughter are somewhere else.”

“Likely with the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione murmured. She looked up at him. “I wonder if they could become allies of a sort.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“We have the Black family alliance. If two of the Black sisters are living there, that must count for something.”

Tom considered that. “That is true,” he said, “and it is basically acknowledged now, with Lord and Lady Black’s appearance at our wedding.”

“And remember, too, that Lord Abraxas was _murdered_ by his own father, and Lord Lucius must have that weighing on his mind all the time. I’m not saying that we should _trust_ those Malfoys, but they must have some idea of how isolated they are. And Draco really wasn’t that bad to us at Hogwarts, after all.”

Merope glanced up. “Tom and Hermione… if you want to make an overture to these Malfoys, you have my permission to do so. I will acknowledge in the correspondence that you are doing so on my behalf.”

Tom gazed curiously at his mother and Snape. “Mother, you hold the title, and he is your husband and consort.”

“That is true, but Tom, I am a mother of two very premature twin babies, and there is no Muggle in the village of Hangleton whom I would hire as a nurse, missing their infancy myself, merely so that I could conduct a war, since there are others who can do that for me. Severus supports me in this. We have chosen to prioritize our young family. We recognize the fact that there must be a war to overthrow Armand Malfoy and Lestrange, but since you have been much more eager for it—it’s true, Tom, you have,” she said, a grin forming on her face as his dark eyes widened—“and are also younger, and _don’t_ have children yet, we have decided to let you and Hermione take charge of this.”

“But—Hermione might….” He trailed off, glancing at Hermione.

Her face was sad. “Tom, I think at this point it’s safe to say that I inherited my family’s fertility challenges. I have taken the Draught of Fertility faithfully every night since we were married, to no avail. I’m sure we will eventually have a child—after all, my mother did, and so did my great-grandparents on my father’s side, without _any_ magical potion. But perhaps it’s for the best that I am not with child yet. Let’s wait until the war is over.”

Tom’s face was pained. “Hermione, I might not _survive_ the war—”

She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Hush! Don’t you dare say that! We all will. We’re in the right.”

Severus and Merope exchanged a sad glance that neither of the younger pair saw. Silence fell over the table.

Severus then spoke. “I have a new contact to report. The werewolf Remus Lupin, the one who lives in the woods behind Godric’s Hollow, wishes to ally with us.” He glanced apologetically at Merope. “I received and answered his owl late last night. You were asleep.”

“Of course. Eileen and Padrig hardly spare me a moment of sleep! You did right not to wake me for that.” She gave him a wry smile. _“Quite_ right.”

“Well, apparently he intends to come to the castle today. I don’t know what he means to offer us other than his wand, but as you said yourself, every wand helps.”

* * *

When the hour of Lupin’s expected visit arrived, Severus emerged into the great hall to receive him. To his displeasure, a very familiar pudgy little man was standing there, wringing his nine-fingered hands.

“What do you want?” Severus said icily, standing tall in his black robes.

“I heard that my old friend Remus Lupin is going to be here,” Peter Pettigrew wheezed. “I just wanted to meet him.”

Severus strode forward and grabbed Pettigrew’s collar. “Have you been eavesdropping on us as a rat?” he demanded.

Merope frowned at him. “Severus—”

He released Pettigrew and turned to her. “He was not here when we discussed that! How else could he know?”

“Word gets around inside a castle. The house-elves might have talked about it, in preparation for Lupin’s visit.”

Severus noticed that Tom was also glaring blackly at Pettigrew. “Are you reading his thoughts? What do you see?” he asked the younger wizard.

“Sorry, Mother, but he _was_ in his rat form,” Tom said as Pettigrew cowered before them, looking down.

Severus pushed up his wide sleeves. “Well, then,” he began, drawing his wand.

Tom was quicker on the draw. Before Severus could cast anything, Tom had sent an invisible spell at Pettigrew that made him jump and yelp in evident pain.

 _“Get out,”_ Tom ordered him in a low hiss. “How dare you eavesdrop on the family you serve? Go to your own manor.”

With a glare of sudden fury and icy loathing, Pettigrew scurried out of the great hall, slamming the heavy doors behind him.

Merope and Hermione exchanged glances of shared concern. “Tom,” Merope began to say, “Tom and Severus—I do not mean to justify his behavior, but I don’t think that was the best way to deal with it.”

“What do you suggest?” Severus asked roughly. “That we _reward_ him for spying on us by granting his request? We know he has provided intelligence to Armand Malfoy before. He is not trustworthy. I think he should be locked in the dungeons for a spell, frankly, until he reconsiders his choices.”

“I agree,” Tom growled.

Merope sighed. “Well, _I_ am in charge of this castle, and I will not do it. I do not lock up people who have committed no crime.”

“He passed private information to Armand Malfoy. How is that not an act of treason?”

Merope turned and met Severus’s black eyes with a hard gaze in her own. “Remember _what_ he reported, Severus. How is _that_ not an act of treason? Of course, I forgave and pardoned it— _which is my prerogative,”_ she said pointedly. “I can do that for _extenuating circumstances._ My brother was a wicked man and a bad lord, for instance. Those are extenuating circumstances. And… Amycus Carrow was blackmailing Pettigrew, and what he told—and whom he told it to—was really quite harmless, all things considered. If I pardoned you for poisoning my brother, a family affair that concerned no one else, Armand Malfoy had no authority to pursue it himself. Pettigrew would have known that. Under threat of blackmail, he provided Malfoy with scandalous information that was useless for practical purposes. Of course he cannot be fully trusted… but the way that you and Tom treat him is unhelpful. I insist upon the two of you standing down and allowing me to address him in the future.”

Severus and Tom both looked as though they wanted to object, but they did not.

The tense moment was mercifully interrupted by the appearance of the house-elves at the end of the great hall, in front of the tall double doors that Pettigrew had just gone out. They faced the family, and one of them spoke.

“Master Remus Lupin of Godric’s Forest is here,” announced the male elf.

“Thank you,” Merope said, settling herself upon the high seat, adjusting the two babies in her lap. The other three members of the family took their seats next to Merope. “Show him in.”

Tom and Hermione observed the two babies, thinking. Although it was not protocol for Muggle noblewomen to receive guests with young children in their arms, the custom was different for witches, because there was no stigma in it—at least in the British Isles. A witch who had borne a magical infant was expected to be proud of it. She had added to the magical population—the magical noble population, in the case of noblewomen, the only class of witches for whom the magical custom was different to the Muggle one. It was actually considered shameful for a witch noblewoman of Britain to _not_ keep a magical infant with her. The only kind of child that a noble witch was expected to conceal from magical outsiders was one who _didn’t_ have magic; therefore it was considered an insult to a magical child—and to the magical population itself—for its parents to hide it. This was yet another tradition of magical Britain that the Normans wanted to change, Tom thought grouchily. They had adopted the Muggle noble practice of having servants—house-elves, in their case—attend to children most of the time, especially when the parents were receiving guests, and wanted to make this the social expectation for everyone else.

The elves pulled the doors open, admitting the werewolf. Even dressed in his best, Remus Lupin looked shabby. The full moon was about a week away, which accounted for some of it, but the Riddles and Snape suspected that he just looked unhealthy as a result of years of living with his condition. Nevertheless, he walked toward the family with as much confidence as he could muster.

“My lady of Hangleton,” he said, bowing low. “My lords and ladies.”

“Greetings, Master Lupin,” Merope said formally. “I understand that you are a friend of our ally Sirius Black.”

Lupin nodded. “I did not realize that he was a formal ally, my lady. Of course, he _is_ still a Black, and your alliance with that great house is well known now.”

“Yes.”

“I offer my respects to your ladyship for the many recent happy events in your family,” Lupin said, “and I am here today because I wish to offer you my wand as well.”

Merope was unsurprised. “I will gladly accept your service, Master Lupin—but I wish to talk with you first. Be aware that my son is a master Legilimens, so you must tell the truth.”

Lupin awaited her questions anxiously.

She leaned forward. “What is your current relationship to James Potter?”

Tom had locked his gaze with Lupin’s as the latter spoke, swallowing hard. “I do not know what your ladyship knows of his… associates… the Weasley family,” he said.

“We know that the Weasleys have a clandestine alliance with the Muggle king,” she said, “and have promised the goblins of the Continent considerable treasure.”

Lupin nodded. “Yes. They have, and James… _supports_ them.”

“I thought he might,” Tom muttered.

“He has thrown his lot in with them entirely, which is part of the reason why I am here today. I do not know if anyone has told the king about the existence of real werewolves—I _hope_ my old friend would not betray me by name—but if His Majesty finds out, it will not end well for us. He is a strong ally of the Church, and they would view it as a curse of the devil. A _curse_ it certainly is, of course.”

The Riddles and Severus contemplated this. Finally Merope spoke again. “You are estranged from your friend because of this political difference?”

“Yes, your ladyship. And he is estranged from me, I think. It began not quite a year ago, when he learned of something involving his wife….” Lupin trailed off uncertainly, glancing uneasily at Severus.

“We know of what you speak,” Merope said. “Please continue.”

“Well. I supported Mistress Potter in the business, as did Sirius. James has never quite forgiven it.”

“You said just now that Potter’s alliance with the Weasleys is ‘part of the reason’ for your visit. Is the dispute over the revelations of last autumn the other part?”

“It is _another_ part, your ladyship,” he said. “The final reason is that Sirius is increasingly keeping to himself—well, to his new family. And that is understandable! I do not begrudge him that. But I fear that this will leave me unprotected if war should break out among us… and of the sides that have taken shape, I support your ladyship’s the most, from what I have heard of it.”

“Our family and our allies mean no harm to your kind as a whole, Master Lupin, and we do seek to undo what Lord Malfoy has done to our laws and reestablish many traditional practices of wizarding England, Scotland, and Wales from a hundred fifty years ago—including, yes, the Wizengamot,” she added as Lupin’s eyes widened. Tom turned to his mother and nodded in satisfaction, indicating to her that Lupin was not lying about anything. She took a deep breath. “I accept your offer. Kneel before me.”

Lupin knelt and offered her his wand as he took the oath, swearing on his magic to serve her and her family.

Merope bade him rise and handed the wand back to him. “Now, I wish to discuss with you your lodgings. I understand if you wish to remain where you are for now, especially since you and Sirius have a system to keep your condition somewhat in check during the full moon. However, should war break out, I may order you to come to this barony to fulfill your oath. I will take your condition into account as best I can.” She gazed at him. “An order from any one of this family will carry the same weight as an order from me, unless it conflicts with my order.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Our first order to you is to return to Godric’s Hollow and find out from Sirius, if at all possible, where James Potter is currently staying. We mean him no harm. His son is a friend and was a guest at Lord Thomas and Lady Hermione’s wedding. We simply demand a seat at the table if any treating with the Muggle king takes place. It is more appropriate for us, as nobles, to negotiate with him, in any case.”

Lupin nodded thoughtfully. “As you command.” He prepared to leave.

“But first,” Merope said hurriedly, “we invite you to stay and refresh yourself. There is wine, ale, cider, and plenty of food. You need not depart at once!”

The babies were starting to fuss, so Lupin quickly agreed. The family walked to the parlor that they used for receiving guests.

Tom was glad to have another wand, even if it did belong to a werewolf and a commoner. This fellow might not have been educated at Hogwarts, but he had learned magic from his talented friends—and from living near a village with many witches and wizards.

 _And if he serves us well and survives,_ Tom thought, _we could offer him a knighthood. He need not remain a commoner._

* * *

They were just finishing their refreshments when an elf abruptly entered the parlor and scurried to Merope, desperately flashing a sealed scroll at them.

“An urgent message!” the elf panted. “An urgent message for Mistress and everyone!”

Hermione’s eyes widened and her heart began to pound as soon as she saw the wax seal. It was imprinted with the heraldic symbol of the Granger family. Next to her, Tom sucked in his breath and placed a hand discreetly on top of hers. She squeezed it, trying to calm herself.

Lupin was looking distinctly awkward at being present for this. “Shall I go?” he asked. “I would not intrude—”

Merope shook her head. “No. You must stay.” She passed the letter to Hermione, her face distraught and frightened.

Chills ran down Hermione’s body as she took the letter and began to read it. It was short.

 

_Lady Riddle, Hermione, and family:_

_We are under attack. A very old, white-haired wizard stands at our gates with several wizards behind him. It is a small force, but they can all do magic. The wardspells that you placed on our castle four years ago are weakening with everything they do. I know little of magic but I can tell. The attackers’ spells are chipping stone away. It will not hold. I am sending this by the old owl that has perched on my bedchamber windowsill for years. I hope and pray that it knows what to do. If you receive this message, please help us._

_W. Granger_

 

Hermione began to breathe rapidly and irregularly as she dropped the letter. It fluttered to the floor. She gazed at Merope, eyes wide in horror. “We must go,” she croaked. “Not _you,_ of course—the babies—but I have to go—”

“I am going too,” Tom said. He had read the letter over her shoulder. “We have a defensive agreement with them… and they are family.” He stood, pulling Hermione up and supporting her around the waist.

Merope gave her son and daughter-in-law a pained look. “I would go,” she managed, “but I cannot—”

“I would not ask that of you,” Hermione said.

Severus already had his wand in hand, but Tom shook his head. “You should stay with Mother. I don’t want her here all by herself with the babies, unprotected.” He gazed at Remus Lupin. “You. Lupin. _This_ is your first task in our service.” His voice brooked no opposition.

Lupin rose from his seat anxiously, holding his wand. “Yes, Lord Thomas.”

The three of them linked hands together and Apparated at once to a spot a safe distance from Castle Grange.

* * *

Tom was the first to recover from the dizziness of Apparition. Holding Hermione tightly around the waist in case the sights were distressing, he scanned the horizon. Beyond the copse of trees in which they stood, Castle Grange stood.

It stood.

Tom could tell that the ramparts were severely damaged, and the keep had been battered, but the castle stood. He squinted.

“The banner that flies over the castle has an otter,” he said in absolute shock. He turned to Hermione. “That’s—”

“The heraldic animal of my family!” she exclaimed. “They still hold it! _How?”_

Tom exchanged a dark look with Lupin. The werewolf had obviously had the same thought he did. “Hermione,” Tom said reluctantly, “it may be a trap.”

Her expression dimmed at that. She gripped her wand tighter. “We should still go,” she said. “Shield wards for ourselves, of course. If it has—fallen”—she almost choked on the word—“we’ll learn soon enough.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped out.

No witches or wizards fought in front of the castle walls, though as the party of three approached, they could see more evidence of a magical battle etched in the stone. Tom’s brow furrowed in confusion, and his dark eyes became very alert as the drew near.

“Halt!”

They stopped in their tracks from the sound of the male voice above, but they did not sheathe their wands.

A man whom Hermione did not recognize, a swarthy man with a dark head and well-trimmed beard, glared sternly down at them.

“Who are ye?” the man demanded in a Scots accent. He eyed their wands with dislike, though, as he held a sword, he could do nothing to them from a distance.

Hermione stepped forward. “I am Lady Hermione Riddle, formerly Granger, the daughter of the lord and lady of the castle! We have come to fulfill our defensive obligations.” She eyed him in return. “To whom am I speaking?”

The man sneered. “Ye come too late, witch! Oh yea, I know what ye are.”

“Too late?” she cried, nearly collapsing to the ground.

Another man appeared beside this one, holding a bow. He shot the visitors a look of utter loathing—and this face Hermione did recognize.

“Cousin Charles?” she cried out, suddenly realizing—to some extent—what had happened, though she still could not understand _how,_ and she still hoped that she might be wrong—

“You will address me as _Lord Granger_ now,” he said, drawing his bow on them. “I defended this castle! I held it against the onslaught of sorcery, even after my uncle and aunt were ruthlessly murdered!”

Hermione nearly swooned. Tom caught her, preventing her from falling on the stones.

She gazed at him, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, her beautiful young face distraught. “Tom—” she exclaimed, her voice breaking.

He held her, not caring if these two hostile Muggles and this strange werewolf saw, not caring if anyone in the world saw. She was his wife, and she had just lost her family to violence—of what kind, they still did not know—and he would damn his own soul to hell before he failed to support her at this moment.

“I am her husband,” he called out, still holding her as she muffled her sobs. “I speak for her. We have a defensive pact! I insist upon knowing what happened.”

Charles Granger sneered. “We have a defensive pact no longer! You were not there for us in our hour of need, sorcerer. The pact is void!” He paused. “We defended the castle ourselves, without the ‘support’ of magic. Magic is a blight on the world! Nothing good comes of it! Your kind are an abomination!” He pointed his loaded bow at them. “And if you dare attack me, I will put an arrow through your eye just as I did the eye of that old bastard who attacked us!”

Despite the terrible circumstances, despite the fact that he had wanted to be the one to take Malfoy’s life, Tom’s heart leapt at this information. “Armand Malfoy? You put an arrow through his eye?” He smirked. “How fitting for a Norman bastard who came over with the usurper himself to die the same way that the old Muggle King Harold did—”

Granger scoffed. “If only he had! They eventually took down the wards, and in they came—Malfoy was his name? _‘Bad faith’_ in the Norman tongue? Appropriate, but I hardly care. None of your kind deserve proper names any more than demons do!” He collected himself, glaring at the trio with hatred. “They came in, and his lordship—your father, witch—fell, and then her ladyship went down.” He scowled. “Almost all of the servants are dead! They set fire to the keep.”

Tom gazed at the structure. Yes, many of the markings appeared to be scorch marks. In his arms, Hermione let out a cry.

“They sent a letter to you lot by bird—I suppose you finally got it—and a messenger on horseback to me. Guess what message arrived first?” he gloated cruelly. “I came, with my knights, and we surprised the bastards! Six of ’em… the old man, a pathetic dark-haired toad next to him—”

“Lestrange,” Tom muttered, as Hermione sobbed in his arms.

“Two who looked similar—one of them was a witch, though she was so ugly it was hard to tell at first—”

“The Carrows.” Tom was taking a census of the names of the attackers, storing their names away in his mind for vengeance.

“And two others. Male. I came here, with my knight Sir Duncan by my side”—he nodded appreciatively at the dark-haired Scotsman who had first spoken to the small group. “We surprised them! I put an arrow through the old man’s eye… that scared away all of them except the one that acted like he wanted the old one to bugger him.”

Hermione buried her head in Tom’s shoulder. This needless crudity merely made the narrative worse to her. _My parents are dead,_ she thought, the horrible thought shooting through her mind, rocketing back and forth. _My parents are gone, and my cousin makes comments like this._

“What I saw then—” Granger broke off, shaking his head in disgust, but Tom detected something else as well: fear.

The other man, Sir Duncan, spoke up. “The wound should have killed anyone. It _would_ have killed a normal person. And the old man certainly looked dead. He wasn’t moving. But the toady one just loomed over the old man as he lay on the floor, and he poured this silver stuff down his throat—”

Tom sucked in his breath. He turned to Lupin, whose eyes were wide in understanding—and revulsion.

“The arrow _came out of his head,”_ Duncan said, shuddering. “I have ne’er seen the like. It just pushed right out like it had come in. The eye didn’t come back, but the skin healed up as if nothing had happened. That was some devil’s blood, I reckon.”

“Not exactly. I know what it was,” Tom said darkly.

“I am sure you do!” exclaimed Granger hotly. “Your kind are wicked! It’s unnatural. He should be _dead!_ Even if the devil’s blood could heal a wound, that should have killed him! I don’t see how it didn’t.”

“It _did,”_ Tom muttered, too low for anyone to hear him except Hermione and Lupin. “He repossessed his body after Lestrange fed him unicorn blood to heal the wound. This confirms my worst fear.”

Lupin gazed at Tom in shock and alarm. In Tom’s arms, Hermione shuddered.

“They left right after that,” Granger finished, eyeing the trio hatefully. “Is that what you wanted to know? My good knight Duncan and I took care of them. If we had waited for _you,_ the castle probably would have been razed to the ground!”

Hermione finally broke away from Tom. Wobbling somewhat, she stood and faced her cousin with all the courage she could muster. “Cousin,” she said, her voice wavering. Against her husband’s protest, she sheathed her wand and held out her hands to him in application. _“Please._ Remember when we were younger? You called me a… know-it-all,” she choked. A tear trickled down her face. “My _parents—please—_ let me see them—one last time—”

“I am no cousin of yours, witch,” Granger said coldly. “You could have stayed with normal people like your family, but you _insisted_ on marrying a stranger to the family who shared your wicked ability. I know all about it! Quite a dowry they paid out, too. Enjoy the gold that should be mine, sorcerer!” he taunted Tom. “And _you,_ ‘cousin.’ Your parents died because of _you!_ They died because of your abnormality!”

Hermione’s cry of agony sent Tom into a rage. Without thinking, he shot a spell at the Muggles on the ramparts. They leapt away, each in a different direction. The spell struck a stone chimney behind them. In fury, Granger sent an arrow down at them.

“That’s my answer!” he spat. “Get out of here! Leave us!” He glared malevolently at them. “And know this, demon-traffickers. This family has always been neutral, and a very good thing it is! Whichever of the pretenders wins the war, I shall inform His or Her Majesty of this outrage. I will! They must not know that people like you run rampant in this country, attacking the castles of good people, surviving wounds that should kill anyone who hasn’t made a deal with the devil himself!” Behind Granger, a small child emerged.

“Father?” the boy said. His voice carried below.

Charles Granger turned to his son in shock. “Bryan! Go inside at once!” he exclaimed. “You mustn’t be out!”

Hermione let out another gasp of pain. The child, her first cousin removed, was named for her grandfather. She had never even known this boy.

The little boy gazed down at the group of three. “Father?” he asked, easing closer to the edge.

“Get inside!”

The boy stood about a foot away from the edge of the rampart. A chunk of stone collapsed, smashing on the ground. It was perfectly apparent to Tom that the boy had not touched it, nor had it been weak already. But Tom had _seen_ the tiny yellow spark that came from the small boy’s hands right before the stone broke apart.

Granger smacked his son’s bottom, fortunately not noticing the spark. The boy scampered away.

He was not finished with his unwanted visitors, however. “Get lost! I never want to see one of your kind again! I will tell our next monarch what happened this day, and when I do, there will be no corner in the world dark enough to conceal your wickedness!”

Tom stood stock-still, glaring at the Muggle lord above him. “No, you won’t,” he said. He raised his wand, defying the nocked arrow that pointed at him, and cast an invisible spell at the man.

Granger’s furious face softened. He gazed down at his guests, shook his head gruffly, and vanished as he headed back into the castle. Tom cast another spell at the swordsman, Sir Duncan, to similar effect.

He turned to Hermione, who was gazing at him with wet, wounded eyes. “My parents,” she said. “They’re _gone,_ Tom—and my cousin—they warned me—at the wedding, they _warned_ me that he hated magic—”

“Shh,” Tom hushed her, holding her close.

“His son is a wizard,” she said through sobs. “Tom, he’ll _hurt_ him when he finds out!”

“No, he won’t. I won’t let it happen.”

She muffled another sob. “They _died,_ Tom! Malfoy murdered them.”

Tom could say nothing to contradict that. He cuddled her, placing his cheek on top of her head as he held her. “He will pay for what he has done. We know all of his secrets now, and he will pay.”

Lupin gazed at the young couple compassionately. “I should leave the two of you to your grief,” he said heavily. “Her ladyship wished me to go to Godric’s Hollow to talk to Sirius.”

Tom gazed at the werewolf for a moment before nodding. With a sad parting look, Lupin Disapparated.

Tom trudged away from Castle Grange, supporting Hermione in his arms.

* * *

Once they were back in the woods, concealed by the shade of the trees, Hermione collapsed to her knees. Tom allowed her this, kneeling with her, holding her close. His robes became damp beneath her face.

Part of her wished she could just stay here and not have to face this new, terrible reality. The other part shamed her for the wish to escape, telling her that those she had lost deserved grief. She could not ignore that second voice, it turned out.

This was horrible in every way. Merope had been a second mother to her, and for four years, she had had little contact with her own parents—but they _were_ her parents. Nothing that had happened to her had taken that away or truly severed that bond, she realized belatedly. The fact that she had been away from them for so long, living her own life, experiencing her own problems, problems that they could not fully understand as Muggles, made this wrenching loss even worse. She had not even been _close_ to them in four years. The most significant memories she had from the past _four years_ were the memories from her wedding. Her parents had been very kind to her, very supportive. She gulped down another round of tears as she thought of those memories.

 _I knew that something would happen to them,_ she thought as she recalled their departure from Parselhall. _They offered to invite me to visit in the summer! I knew when they walked out the door that it wouldn’t happen. I knew. Deep inside, I knew._

Her own parents—her household—had been massacred by violent wizards. They never stood a chance to defend themselves. Her cousin and his captain had defeated them, yes, but only by the element of surprise—and good luck.

Unbeknownst to her, Tom was thinking of the same thing. _Why would the other four have left after Malfoy was shot?_ he thought. _Lestrange, all right—he knew he had to revive the old man—but why would the others leave? They should not fear Muggle arrows or blades. Had they done what they meant—_

A loud, shuddering sob from Hermione interrupted his increasingly disturbing thoughts. Tom pulled her close. Yet another muffled sob choked in her throat as she reached for him. He took her hands in his and gazed at her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. None of this is your fault,” she replied, holding him close. He squeezed her hands.

“How can I ever forgive myself?” she cried, burying her head on his shoulder. Tears streamed down her face. “I _wasn’t there_ for them. I could have saved them, for all I know!”

“Hermione,” he said, “I don’t think you could have. Malfoy—what we just learned from your cousin about him—it confirms my fears. I really don’t think you could have. Unless you were prepared to use something extremely violent against him. And even then, he could have healed himself, unless his body itself was destroyed.”

“My family,” she whimpered. “Almost everyone who served my parents—everyone I knew growing up as a little girl—dead! And my cousin hates me because of what I am. It’s just like Malfoy himself, in a different way.”

He held her silently, not knowing how to answer. It was all too true.

“I wanted them to know their grandchildren,” she whispered. “But—I must have inherited the problem—and now—”

He remained silent for a moment more before responding. “We will have a family.”

“I wanted my parents to be part of that.”

He closed his eyes as he held her. He had no idea what to say. There was nothing to say.

“And it’s so sudden. Tom, this is it. This is the beginning of the war.”

He sighed, then stiffened. “Yes. It is. They will be avenged, Hermione. We will avenge them. We were not able to strike the first blow, but we will strike the last.”


	47. The Cornered Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your response to the preceding chapter!

_The outskirts of Hangleton, earlier._

Peter Pettigrew waited nervously outside the grounds of the barony of Hangleton. Snape and Riddle had dismissed him to his own manor, refusing to allow him to meet his old friend Remus. It was, a sense, the final straw. For months now, Snape had been eyeing him with barely concealed distrust, dismissing him from Lady Merope’s presence, making one comment after another about him. Pettigrew had noticed quite some time ago, well before he returned to the castle from his stint at the Weasley home, that Snape and Riddle did not get on. He had hoped that this would mean that he could butter up Riddle. Instead, the two wizards had put aside their mutual annoyance with each other when they dealt with Pettigrew. Now Riddle— _with his mother’s approval—_ was using Legilimency on Pettigrew every time they talked.

And that was the other problem Pettigrew faced. Right now he had been able to conceal his darkest secret, the betrayal to Lord Armand Malfoy of his old friends’ and Severus’s plans, but eventually Riddle’s skill would advance to the point of being able to pull out any secret that was not magically concealed. It was possible, he supposed, that he could persuade Lord Malfoy himself to protect the information with the Fidelius Charm, but Carrow and very likely Lestrange also knew. They would not like to lose the ability to blackmail him, and they were closer to Malfoy. With the secret left unprotected, Riddle would get it eventually, and then that would be the end. He would be lucky to be locked in the dungeons of Parselhall.

Lestrange wanted to execute his wife for killing a rapist rather than forcing him to wed their daughter. Malfoy had killed his own son. He had also killed Arcturus Black. Yes, the remaining Black family—minus two of Lord Cygnus’s daughters—had allied with Lady Riddle, but what chance did they stand? They had not been able to stop the establishment of the Malfoy family as the overlords of all witches and wizards in Britain. More importantly to Pettigrew’s own calculations, what chance did _he_ stand? He did not like the sorts of things that Malfoy and Lestrange did, but fortunately he had kept a low enough profile that he was not personally a target for either of them. His situation was much more dangerous with the apparent armistice between Snape and Riddle.

Snape and Riddle had to go, Pettigrew had finally concluded. It would be his life or theirs. He had carefully considered the scheme that he knew about, the scheme that he knew Lestrange and Malfoy were planning for Lady Merope. Caractacus Burke was a greedy bastard, but Pettigrew did not believe that he would kill his own wife or her infant children. After all, as a pureblood, Burke’s children with Merope would inherit instead of those she’d had with a half-blood husband… to say nothing of a Muggle husband. Burke would not kill babies, of that Pettigrew was certain. It was just possible that Burke might even let _Riddle_ live, provided that he took a position at Hogwarts or some such. For the sake of Lady Hermione, Pettigrew rather hoped so. He was not entirely sure what Malfoy and his allies intended to happen to her in their scheme. She had not been a friend to him, exactly—she had played matchmaker between Merope and Snape, undoing his hard work—but neither had she proven herself an obdurate foe the way the two wizards had, Snape especially. Pettigrew hoped that she would not be given to that vile rapist Lestrange… but ultimately, he could not risk his own life for her sake.

Then, too, there was the unexpected boon that was Malfoy’s attack on Lady Hermione’s parents. With any luck, Riddle and Lady Hermione would fall honorably attempting to defend the Muggles. That might even be the best outcome, for the young pair to die before they learned what befell Parselhall….

The way was clear, and the company was on its way. They seemed to be delayed in coming, which Pettigrew supposed was not that surprising. All sorts of things that could cause delays could happen in a battle. He turned around and gazed backward. The walls of the town of Hangleton loomed, warded by Lady Merope’s more porous spells. After all, the town did have to allow trade, correspondence, and legitimate travelers. Beyond that, the castle of Parselhall stood, a stone bulwark, impregnable by force. But certain people could come in, and unfortunately for Snape, Lady Merope’s mad ancestors had built more than one secret entrance.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

_Whack!_ Armand Malfoy struck Rodolphus Lestrange across the face. Instantly the latter’s nose began to drip blood.

“It should work!” Malfoy raged. “It should heal any injuries! Why isn’t it working?”

“My lord,” Lestrange blubbered, “it saved your body from death! That arrow went to your brain.”

“I know damn well what it did!” Malfoy exclaimed, his single eye fixed upon Lestrange. “I was there! I was the one observing my body from outside, as if I were nothing more than a ghost! I just don’t understand how an arrow shot by a filthy Muggle could produce an injury that my tonic cannot cure. Why hasn’t an eye regrown for me?”

Lestrange cast a spell at his nose to stop the bleeding. Although the flow of blood stopped, the pain from the injury remained despite his spell. That led him to a conclusion. “My lord,” he said glumly, “the Muggle nobles we killed had a witch daughter. A Mudblood, yes, but still a witch. And the man who shot the arrow was her cousin—in fact, her _double_ first cousin. He has the same blood that she does on both sides of the family. It is possible that he is also a Mudblood—an untrained one, and obviously less powerful and talented than the girl—and he was able to put a curse on the arrows unintentionally. The tonic cannot repair certain kinds of curse damage. That we know. The arrow injured your brain but did not destroy it, so it could fix that. It destroyed your eye.”

Malfoy seethed in anger. “If he is a Mudblood, that’s another reason that we should return to that place and slay him!” He scowled. “But… at a future date. You may be right, Rodolphus,” he said, attempting to calm himself. “You may be right. And even if he himself is not a Mudblood, he could be one of those rare Muggles, the ones who always turn out to be closely related to Mudbloods, who can see ghosts and handle enchanted objects without harm. I did not think their kind could put crude curses on weapons, though.” He rose from his chair. “Selwyn, Rosier, and the Carrows are waiting in the great hall. The werewolf Fenrir Greyback is also here, and Rosier has summoned three knights of his. I intended to go with you, but I will not show my face before the Riddles with an eye missing. It betrays weakness. I will create a replacement eye for myself with magic. It will not look the same, but it will give me my vision on that side. You will lead the raid on Castle Gaunt.”

Lestrange bowed. If he were honest with himself, he was thrilled to lead this raid. “As you wish, my lord.”

Malfoy sighed heavily. “I had intended to be there myself. There is… the possibility… that we cannot take the blood-traitor woman in this attack.” He seemed to hate uttering the words. “I meant to have a contingency plan.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“There is a certain curse from my homeland… the homeland of your ancestors too, Rodolphus,” he said, smiling evilly. “But… I suppose you could pass her this curse just as well as I.” He opened a cabinet and rummaged through it, at last emerging with a large, fairly crude gold brooch. A miniature form of an uprooted tree, obviously created by magic, was pressed behind a large clear glass cabochon. As Lestrange looked more closely, he observed that the tiny leaves of the tree were all withered and blackened, and the minuscule exposed roots appeared drenched in something dark red—blood?

 _But that would mean that this is—_ Lestrange gazed at Malfoy, truly shocked for once.

“You know the incantation that activates the curse, then,” Malfoy said, noting Lestrange’s look.

“Yes,” he said. “It is… this is a very dark thing, my lord, especially in conjunction with the measures that you have taken to protect yourself. The wizard lords of the Franks _banned_ this curse three centuries ago and confiscated—”

“All of the artifacts bearing it except this one. I renewed the curse with my own magic. You are to use it on her if you cannot kill all of them in the raid,” Malfoy said flatly.

Lestrange almost did not want to handle the object, even though he knew that it was not active until someone spoke the words. Gingerly he took the brooch from Malfoy and placed it in his belt purse.

“One last thing,” Malfoy said. “Make sure that Wormtail does not survive. He cannot be trusted, and he will have outlived his usefulness to us after this.”

With that, Malfoy departed to his private quarters, leaving Lestrange to relish the task ahead of him. He took a deep breath and strode through the door into the great hall.

* * *

Nine pops shattered the air, and nine figures—eight wizards and one witch—appeared in the clearing before Peter Pettigrew. He gazed upon them, quickly identifying them. Lestrange was there, of course. Pettigrew feared and loathed him, but he knew that he would be there. He was wearing a heavy gold locket around his neck, one that obviously bore the serpentine symbol of Salazar Slytherin in emeralds. It was clearly intended as a taunt and an insult to the family, and Pettigrew wondered momentarily how they had come by it. Hadn’t Burke been the last owner? _They probably bullied it from him,_ Pettigrew thought with some discomfort. That did not bode well; what else might they bully Burke into doing?

He examined the others. There were the Carrows, whom he disliked nearly as much as he disliked Lestrange. Amycus Carrow grinned maliciously at Pettigrew. There was Sir Fenrir, who now called himself Greyback. He was another disgruntled former Gaunt vassal. The other wizards were less familiar to him, but after a moment’s thought, he identified the better-dressed ones as Selwyn and Rosier. Beside Rosier were three large, imposing wizard knights whom Pettigrew knew as Crabbe, Goyle, and Rowle. Where was Lord Malfoy? Where, for that matter, was Burke? Pettigrew wondered, but he did not dare ask. Lestrange was leading the attack, and Carrow was acting as his lieutenant. Pettigrew knew that both of them took pleasure in torture for little to no reason.

 _I suppose it’s better that Burke is not part of this himself,_ Pettigrew thought as he led the cloaked and hooded group past the first set of wards, the ones that only kept out curses aimed at the Muggle villagers. _It would be despicable to order Lady Merope to marry a man who personally killed anyone in her family._ The thought comforted him and made him more inclined to hope that young Lord Thomas and Lady Hermione might be spared. Burke was avaricious, but he might not be a terrible lord.

The secret entrance to Parselhall that he would be using actually led to his own manor house. It was not personally easy for him to use it. It was through this tunnel that Morfin Gaunt had appeared to carry off his poor mother to a horrible death by serpent venom, and its other entrance was in the dungeons. He was not sure if Lady Merope knew about it. However, even if she did, she had those two babies. She certainly would not be standing guard anywhere in the castle.

Pettigrew let them into his home, closed and locked the door behind him, and led them into his cellar, where the secret tunnel waited for them. The eight wizards and one witch illuminated their wand tips in the darkness. Lestrange gasped in amazement and delight as Pettigrew sent a heavy bookcase away with a flick of his wand, revealing the tunnel.

“I only serve you, my lord,” Pettigrew said, keeping his gaze on the ground.

Lestrange smirked, though Pettigrew could not see it.

“My lord,” Pettigrew ventured suddenly, feeling a spark of courage, “might I ask—might I inquire as to the whereabouts of his high lordship and Caractacus Burke?”

Rodolphus’s nostrils flared. “His high lordship has better things to do than deal with blood-traitors, half-bloods, and Mudbloods,” he said, trusting that Pettigrew either did not know that Malfoy _had_ led a raid on Muggles, or that he would not dare speak up to contradict him if he did know.

Pettigrew knew, of course, but he indeed did not say anything about Lord Malfoy. He still had something else to ask. “And… Burke, my lord?” he said. A horrible idea had suddenly entered his head. Rumor had it that Lord Malfoy had procured a civil divorce for Lestrange. That would only free him from any financial obligation to Bellatrix, any requirement to protect and house her and their daughter. It was _not_ the same thing as truly ending a wizarding marriage. But their sort cared nothing about betraying their wizarding oaths….

Lestrange did not reply, but continued to grin malevolently. A cold weight settled in Pettigrew’s gut. _Surely not,_ he thought in growing panic. “My lord, is he dead?” he squeaked.

Carrow sent a hex at Pettigrew, making him jump in pain. “Not that we know of,” Carrow snarled. “He is likely taking shelter with some of the dog lords of the North.”

Alecto Carrow snickered at her brother’s label for the Blacks.

“Since he is a traitor, so he is not his high lordship’s choice for this anymore,” Amycus Carrow continued. “Our lord Lestrange wears the mark of your blood-traitor liege’s family. _You_ can determine what that means.”

 _What have I done?_ Pettigrew thought in horror as they reached the other entrance, the one that opened into the dungeons of Parselhall. _What have I done? Lestrange is a rapist and a violent murderer. He will—_

But it was too late. The nine invaders burst into the dungeons, wands drawn. Pettigrew stood there, stricken, feeling all the weight of betraying his oath. For a terrible moment it seemed that he could do no magic whatever. He tumbled to the ground as a physical weakness hit him.

 _No,_ he thought. _I can try to warn them._ Reaching for his wand, he transformed into a rat and scampered away. He knew all the nooks and crannies of the castle, and there were still routes that Snape had not warded against rats.

* * *

Severus and Merope were in the family wing, sitting in the parlor with the twins, anxiously awaiting the return of Tom, Hermione, and Remus Lupin. Severus was horribly certain that Hermione’s parents were already dead, and he belatedly wished that they had not rushed off. Surely Lupin would not let them sacrifice themselves if the castle were overrun.

He heard scratching at the door and leapt out of his seat. Hermione’s cat was upstairs in the couple’s bedroom, along with Tom’s snake. Had it gotten out? He flung the door open and looked down. Instead of a fluffy orange-brown cat, a large grey rat scratched at the door—a rat with nine digits on its front feet.

The rat transformed into a pudgy, ugly wizard. Peter Pettigrew gasped for breath. “My lord! My lady! The castle is overrun—”

Severus grabbed the man by his collar. “Overrun?” he snarled. “You betrayed us, didn’t you?”

“Severus,” he gurgled as the man’s large bony hands found their way around his throat. “I didn’t know—I thought—Burke—but it’s—Lestrange—”

Merope was on her feet, her wand in hand, her eyebrows low on her forehead in anger—and _not_ anger at her husband, Pettigrew realized. Severus whirled around. “Go!” he exclaimed. He gazed at the small twins. “Take them….” His gaze shifted to Pettigrew. In a flash, he cast a spell to knock the smaller man out cold. “Take them to Canis Manor,” he said. “To Lord Regulus. And stay there!”

“Leave you here by yourself?” she exclaimed, grabbing up the infants. “Severus, you must come with me! You’ll die!”

Severus had resigned himself to that probability. “I have to stay here in case Tom and Hermione return. If I die, at least the future of our families will still be safe. Go, Merope! And remember that I love you.” He gave her a pained, desperate glance.

There was no time even for a parting kiss. With a miserable look on her face, Merope held Eileen and Padrig close and Disapparated.

At once Severus revived Pettigrew. He slapped him across the face. “You will fight by my side,” he snarled. “You will fight with me and _die_ with me, rat!” He supposed that there was a chance that Lord Regulus would return—indeed, he certainly _would_ come, but the question was whether it would be in time to save him.

Pettigrew nodded penitently.

“Who are they?” Severus demanded.

“Lestrange, the Carrows, Selwyn, Rosier, Fenrir, Crabbe, Goyle, and Rowle.”

“Shit,” Severus swore. He stood no chance against that many. “Not Malfoy? Not Burke?”

“Burke betrayed them, and Malfoy was probably hurt in the raid on the Grangers.” He could not meet Severus’s black eyes. “They mean to force her to marry _Lestrange!”_

“And that is why you turned against them.” He regarded the man with utter contempt. “You didn’t care if I was killed. You just didn’t want that foul bastard to rape and murder my wife.” He did not wait for a reply. “Malfoy was hurt? What of the young people—and Lupin?”

“I don’t know.”

This got worse and worse. Since all of these people were here, and Malfoy himself had only been injured, Severus had to consider the possibility that all three of the defenders were already dead. The thought of the young couple, so recently married—only sixteen and seventeen years old!—cut down by that monster and his followers boiled his blood.

The attackers burst into the hallway. Steeling himself for death, yet casting wards to protect his body from at least some of the spells that would be coming, Severus entered the fray.

* * *

Tom and Hermione stood up. Hermione was still teary-eyed, but she recognized that it was time to return to Parselhall. There was nothing they could do. Her parents and almost all of their servants had died, falling to spells or fire, but her cousin’s people held the castle. He had even managed to injure Armand Malfoy. Despite Charles’s hatred for magic and exiling her from what remained of the family, Hermione decided that she and Tom would protect Castle Grange as soon as they had made their report to Severus and Lady Merope. Malfoy and his supporters would certainly attack again sometime. She held hands with Tom as they Disapparated back to Hangleton.

As soon as the disorientation vanished, she glanced around the great hall of Parselhall. Something was not right. It was too quiet—but no, she heard something in the distance, something that sounded like… shouting… and crashes….

Tom gazed at her, wide-eyed. He gripped his wand. “It was a trick,” he said. “They wanted to get us out of the castle.” His eyes narrowed. _“Pettigrew.”_ He uttered the name as though it were a malediction. His handsome features settled into a mask of fury and dark determination that would have frightened Hermione for him if it had occurred under any other circumstances.

They were at the great doors that led to the main hallway when a particularly loud pop of Apparition sounded through the hall. As one, they whirled around, ready to attack.

Merope stood there, her face angry and set, her expression never so closely resembling her son’s. There was almost no physical similarity between them, but at this moment it was clear that they were mother and son.

Next to her stood Lord Regulus Black and a young woman with short, bright orange hair, dressed not in the formal, elegant robes of a noblewoman, but in simpler clothing that would enable her to fight easily. Hermione and Tom had seen her only once before, at their wedding, but they recognized her. This was Regulus’s purported daughter, Dora.

“I have sent word to my brother,” Regulus said, his wand drawn, striding forward. “He and the werewolf Remus Lupin should be joining us shortly.”

Tom nodded briskly and flicked his wand, opening the great doors. At the end of the hall, nine wizards—or eight wizards and a witch?—were fighting against Severus and Pettigrew himself. That was a surprise to Tom, but perhaps the wretch had had a change of heart at the last second for some reason. He still was not to be trusted.

“You should stay in a safe spot,” he said to Hermione.

She gazed at him, her brown eyes hard and determined. “I will not. I am part of this family now. It’s the only real family I have left, and I will fight with the rest of you.”

He looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue, but then he changed his mind. Together the group of five dashed down the hallway, joining the fray.

* * *

Severus counted quickly as the newcomers joined. Tom and Hermione were alive after all, and nine against seven was… not hopeless. But—oh _no—_

“You shouldn’t be here!” he shouted as Merope joined in, taking on Greyback and Amycus Carrow at once, clearly wanting to take revenge against two traitorous vassals. “I _told_ you—”

She sent the werewolf to the ground with a curse and cast another curse at Amycus Carrow, producing a splash of blood as his right forearm opened. A few feet away, Tom—who was dueling Selwyn—gaped in shock and approval. “This is my castle!” Merope exclaimed. “I _should_ be here if anyone should! They’re safe with Lady Andromeda and their house-elf Kreacher.”

Severus, who was dueling Lestrange, shook his head in amazement and alarm—but also pride in her.

Tom noticed what dangled from Lestrange’s neck. His dark eyes widened in outrage. “You!” he roared, flinging his current opponent—Selwyn—aside. Selwyn crashed against the stone wall and slumped to the floor, winded, his vision momentarily unfocused.

In the back of his mind, Tom knew that the thing to do was to kill Selwyn while he was down, but he was fixated upon the locket of Salazar Slytherin. Rodolphus Lestrange, the filthy beast of a man, was wearing it, befouling and defiling it by the very act of having it on him, this object that belonged by right to Tom’s family. While Lestrange was occupied in his duel with Severus, Tom lunged for the locket, grabbing hold of it and yanking as hard as he could.

Lestrange yelped as some of the hair from the back of his neck caught in the chain. The chain was too strong, too heavily enchanted, to break, and the force of Tom’s pulling caused him to bend his head and let it slip off. Tom let out a roar of triumph as he held the object in hand, distracted from the violence and chaos around him.

Severus was utterly dismayed. “What are you doing, Tom? It’s just a piece of—” His words were cut off as Lestrange hit him with a violent curse. He doubled over, bleeding from the mouth.

Lestrange moved in to kill. As he raised his wand, Merope shot a nasty hex at him, the same one she had just used on Carrow—except this one hit Lestrange in the stomach. It tore through his outer robes. A spray of blood shot from his body, and he clutched his gut in pain.

“Put it away and fight, Tom!” she exclaimed, bringing him back to reality. He blinked, shocked at what he had nearly let happen, and stashed the locket in his own belt purse at once.

At that point, Rowle, Rosier’s knight, hit Merope herself in the back. She collapsed to the floor.

“Don’t kill her!” Lestrange gasped, healing the hideous wound, though it would leave a bad scar. “She is mine!”

Hermione was dueling fiercely and could not aid Severus or Merope. So was Regulus, who was fighting both Rowle and Rosier at the same time. Regulus’s daughter Dora sent her opponent, Crabbe, to the floor in a crushing curse that apparently broke several bones. She sent a quick rejuvenation spell at Merope, who got to her feet and looked around to see who was in need of help.

Regulus was holding his own. Indeed—Merope gasped in shock as he sent Rowle crashing against the stone wall, clearly and sickeningly breaking his neck. _One enemy down,_ she thought grimly.

Selwyn had gotten back up to duel Tom again, and Lestrange had decided to join in—but when he saw Rowle die, he snarled in anger and pulled away from Tom. He cast a lethal green jet in Regulus’s direction, but Regulus saw it coming and leapt out of the way. It hit a banner of House Riddle. The three-headed snake wreathed in elder leaves fell, aflame.

Having at least temporarily dispatched Crabbe, Dora Black was now fighting Goyle. He was a marginally more intelligent duelist than Crabbe, but she was still superior. Unless she had a streak of extremely bad luck, she would not need help.

Hermione was locked in a fight with Alecto Carrow. To her surprise and pleasure, she was more than a match for the older witch. Alecto was struggling to keep up with either the speed or the magnitude of Hermione’s curses, as Hermione sent yet another one in the woman’s direction. Alecto’s hair caught fire, and she shrieked as she attempted to extinguish it. Hermione took advantage of her distraction to cast a bruising hex at her.

“What are you doing, Hermione? Cast to kill!” Tom exclaimed, exasperated. Selwyn, indeed, dodged a curse that would have been lethal had it hit. The spell struck a suit of armor in the hallway, sending it to the floor in a cascade of shattered, melting metal.

“I quite agree,” said a new voice. All heads turned. Remus Lupin, who had spoken, was standing side-by-side with Sirius Black. The two wizards strode forward, already firing spells into the melee.

Pettigrew was barely fighting, trying instead to avoid the duels and stray spells as best he could. Severus was still down, attempting to heal whatever spell Lestrange had used on him. He cursed under his breath as he observed the proceedings. Pettigrew hesitated, then sent a healing spell at Severus. Instantly the flow of blood stopped. Severus rose to his feet, gazing at the wizard wordlessly. He gave a curt nod to Pettigrew and rejoined the fray.

However, the attackers were fighting back. The werewolf Greyback was back on his feet and fighting Remus Lupin, seemingly regarding it as a personal insult that Remus was there. Crabbe was back up too, fighting Dora Black alongside Goyle. Rosier was still engaged with Regulus, and Lestrange with Merope. Amycus Carrow had managed to heal his arm, and he was now fighting Hermione with his sister.

Tom glanced at Sirius Black, who had begun to duel Selwyn alongside him. “Go to her,” Sirius said quickly from one side of his mouth. Tom did not hesitate, leaving him to Selwyn and joining Hermione against the Carrows at once.

Fenrir Greyback glared at Remus. “I’m sick of you,” he snarled. He cast a violent curse at the other man’s head, missing by a fraction of an inch, singeing Remus’s shaggy hair. He laughed maliciously and cast another spell while Remus was distracted. Since he had expended magical energy on the first one, this was not as powerful, but it was powerful enough to cause Remus to double over in pain. Greyback laughed harder.

Remus gritted his teeth and cast a dark spell while the other werewolf was distracted. It hit. Greyback gaped for a moment, then fell backward, instantly dead. From a short distance away, Dora Black gave him an admiring look. She returned to her duel with Crabbe and Goyle, smiling in manifest enjoyment as she sent another bone-shattering curse at Crabbe.

“Die, Mudblood!”

The traitor Carrow struck Hermione in the chest with a curse that looked like purple flames—and fear overtook Tom when Hermione crumpled to the ground, her mouth open in an O of shock.

A cry escaped Tom’s throat. After everything—after two years of estrangement due to his own actions, after almost losing her to the basilisk of Slytherin, after she herself lost her parents that very day, _would she—_ but no, he would not finish the thought. It was too ghastly.

Rage filled his body. Tom mustered all his magical energy and cast a Killing Curse at Amycus Carrow. It barely missed. Tom snarled and attempted to replenish his magical energy as quickly as he could. Meanwhile Severus, who had noticed Hermione’s fall, had darted over to defend Tom against the traitorous brother and sister.

Though curses still flew around him, Tom could not concentrate or be functional in a duel until he knew. He bent down quickly and reached for Hermione. Terrified of what he might find, he felt the side of her neck.

Her pulse still thudded. She had obviously been hit with something bad—a single thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth nearest the floor—but at least she was alive. Tom could not do much for her until the castle was secured, much as he hated to wait even a second. The foul attackers would not take a timeout, after all. He cast a general healing spell at her, hoping that it would slow the progress of that curse, and returned to the fight, standing by Severus again.

Severus was fighting the Carrows. The spell that Lestrange had used on him had sapped his energy badly, and although he would have been more than a match for them in better times, he was losing. Blood dripped from his nose after a punching hex that Alecto Carrow had sent at his head. On the sidelines, Pettigrew, the damned, blasted coward, observed, his ratlike eyes widening in alarm. Greyback and Rowle were dead, and Crabbe was down. Goyle was rapidly failing against Dora Black and Remus Lupin, too. Six invaders against seven defenders, since Hermione was down and Pettigrew was not participating. Severus was not a natural Legilimens; he had to cast the spell in order to perform it, but he could detect the very moment that Pettigrew realized that the numbers had turned against the band of villains that he had led into Parselhall.

 _As soon as he thinks we might actually win,_ Severus thought sourly as the wretch joined him to fight against the Carrows. But a wand was a wand, and Severus knew he was going to lose without someone helping him. If they did have victory, he wanted everyone to be able to enjoy it. He really hoped that Lady Hermione was not too badly injured.

Lestrange seemed to realize that the tide had turned as well. His unattractive face grew sour and bitter. He snarled at Merope, who was holding her own against him. “Blood-traitor whore! You and your pack of curs, vipers, and mongrels might have won this day—but you cannot defeat Lord Malfoy!” He thrust his hand into his belt purse, pulled out an object in his fist that he immediately shoved against Merope’s high collar, and uttered a phrase in his own tongue, not quite a curse, but words to activate one.

The sound of the language of the Normans caught Tom’s attention, in a very negative way. He watched as time seemed to slow down. Lestrange, the monster, the filthy rapist, finished speaking, his mouth breaking into a malevolent smile.

In the next moment, Merope tumbled to the ground lifeless, the object that Lestrange had pinned to her still attached to her clothing.

“Let us go!” he exclaimed. “Retreat!” He gazed across the hallway, remembering Malfoy’s final command to him, and took a deep breath as he focused on Peter Pettigrew.

The surviving attackers drew back from their duels as best they could. Rosier broke away from Regulus, Selwyn from Sirius Black, Goyle from Dora and Remus—picking up Crabbe as he did—and Alecto Carrow from Severus and Tom.

Amycus Carrow made to leave too, but Tom was not going to allow that. He wanted to kill the bastard for what he had done to Hermione, but perhaps it would be better to question him first. That was the thought that passed through his mind in the fraction of a second between Carrow’s breaking away from his duel and the moment that Tom sent a dark curse at him that knocked him out. As he tumbled to the floor, his sister exclaimed in anger and attempted to intervene, to bring her brother back with them, to attack Tom.

Pettigrew had just sent a spell at Alecto to stun her when Lestrange’s curse, a horrifically violent one, struck him. Blood erupted from his mouth, his nose, and his ears as he tumbled to the floor. As the six escaping attackers fled, Lestrange turned back, laughing.

Regulus and Sirius pursued them, continuing to shoot curses at them. Remus and Dora hesitated before deciding to stay.

Severus was attempting to stop Pettigrew’s bleeding, but the curse was too intense. Tom seemed frozen, torn between going to his mother and going to his wife. Both were down.

Remus gave Dora a fleeting look before joining Severus as he attempted to save Pettigrew’s life. They cast spell after healing spell at the wizard, but he grew paler by the second.

“Need to say something,” Pettigrew muttered, his eyes fluttering rapidly. “Potter. He and—Longbottoms—and Weasleys.”

“They are allied with the Muggle king-pretender,” Severus finished.

Pettigrew looked up, apparently disappointed that his last secret was not one at all. “They’ve promised him everything. _Anything._ Anything he wants. James… betrayed me… long ago… ’s why I told Malfoy.”

“Told Malfoy?” Severus said sharply.

“About Godric’s Hollow. Shouldn’t have, but I was angry about… Morfin.” He took a heavy, shuddering breath, mustering his final strength. “I never wanted _her_ harmed. I hope… she’s all right.”

Severus and Remus exchanged shocked glances as Pettigrew went limp before them.

Tom had paid little attention to Pettigrew’s death. As far as he was concerned, this was Pettigrew’s fault in the first place. If he had not managed to get himself killed in the fighting, Tom was quite determined that he would have executed Pettigrew anyway even if the latter _had_ changed his mind at the last minute. Tom had other, more important things to think about now. He was cradling Hermione’s head in his lap, his face crumpled as he held her close. He had managed to stop the trickle of blood from her mouth, but she was badly injured on the inside, and he could tell that it would require potions to heal. Next to him was Merope, who looked just as dead as Pettigrew. No spell that he cast on her would revive her.

Severus drew away, silently easing next to Tom. Scared of what he might find, he felt Merope’s wrist for a pulse.

It was slow and faint, but it was there.

* * *

The tasks of picking up the pieces after the battle were grim. As outsiders to the family, the Blacks and Lupin decided that they would dispose of the enemy dead. Dealing with the bodies of Rowle and Greyback was a task that neither Severus nor Tom would want to do right now, with their wives seriously injured and in urgent need of care. Dora and Remus levitated the bodies out of the castle and into a hole that they quickly carved out of the earth with magic.

Pettigrew, Sirius and Remus had decided—with Severus’s consent—would have an actual funeral and a tombstone on the grounds. Not this very moment, of course. For now, they would clean up his body, put a preservation spell on it, and lay it out across a table in one of the rooms. But despite all his treacheries, in the end he had given his life for the family he served. He had fallen while defending the heir of the ruling baroness.

Regulus Black had hauled Amycus Carrow’s unconscious form into the dungeons of Parselhall and locked him securely in the darkest, smallest cell he could find. He did not envy Carrow his fate, especially since Tom Riddle would certainly blend justice with vengeance to the maximum extent that he could stomach, but that was out of Regulus’s hands. Carrow’s crimes had been against the Riddle family; it was they who would deal with him.

Lady Andromeda would return to the castle with baby Eileen and Padrig as soon as Severus was able to care for them. Regulus had sent word to her that it was safe and that they had managed to repel the attack—and to prepare to the long-awaited war. The Muggle Grangers, the parents of Lord Thomas’s wife, were dead, he had written—killed by Armand Malfoy and five of the people who had been at Parselhall that day. These deeds would not go unanswered.

Regulus and Dora, Sirius and Remus—they all remained at the castle, standing guard against a repeat attempt. Severus and Tom were too preoccupied right now to be effective.

* * *

Of the two women, Hermione had the more severe set of injuries. The curse that ailed Merope had not caused any detectable physical damage to her, either external or internal. Her unconscious state was certainly grim and disturbing, though, and Severus had made certain to immediately detach that brooch that Lestrange had pinned to her—using magic, of course; Severus certainly would not dare handle the thing with his own hands. He had examined it as soon as Hermione was stable, and he was not yet telling Tom what he had learned.

Tom sat by his bedside, his dark eyes wide and fixed upon the sleeping form of his wife as Severus poured a colorful mix of potions down her throat. He clutched his battle prize—his weregild, or so it would have been if he had managed to kill anyone—in his hands. It seemed cold and hollow now. He was glad it was back in the possession of his family, but at what price? His mother was in a sleep akin to death, and whatever Severus knew about her prospects, he was not saying. His beloved wife lay in a magically induced healing sleep with severe curse injuries. _We were already struggling to conceive,_ Tom thought miserably. _The Draught of Fertility was not enough. The magic of Beltane was not enough. What if that vile curse damaged her womb? We’ll never have children if that happened._

“She will be all right in a couple of days,” Severus said in a low voice. “It’s a good thing that Carrow cast that curse silently. She probably would have died if he had cast it verbally.”

Tom grimaced, clutching the locket closely. “He will pay for it,” he said darkly. “He will pay for everything he has done. He is in our clutches, and at last I can exact justice upon him. I only regret that it won’t be Lestrange himself who I—” He broke off at once. “You say that Hermione will be ‘all right.’ When will she wake up?” His voice was anxious.

“She might wake up tonight,” said Severus. “However, she shouldn’t leave her bed, and one of those potions will make her legs too weak to walk, so she _can’t._ It’s for her own good.”

Tom almost did not want to know the answer to his next question, but his anxiety would kill him if he did not ask. “And—our prospects for children in the future?” he croaked. “Was it—did it harm her there?”

Severus gazed at the young wizard gravely but compassionately. “It came close,” he admitted. Tom’s face fell, and Severus quickly continued. “But no, those organs were untouched. The damage was mostly to her lower lungs. It may take several years for her to recover her physical strength fully. She will be unable to exert herself—and I don’t mean that it will be dangerous for her to do so. I mean that she won’t have the strength at all. She will have to take two of these potions daily for at least the next six months—which means, yes, that you should not attempt to have children for this period of time.”

Tom sighed heavily. He set the locket aside and reached for Hermione’s right hand, which lay on top of the bedspread. “I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he whispered. “I don’t know—I don’t think I could have done anything differently during that one moment—but perhaps….” He closed his eyes and kissed her hand, then gazed up at Severus. “She will be all right, mostly, in a couple of days, though? And might awaken as soon as tonight?”

Severus nodded. “If she does, you should be here for her. She will still remember everything that happened, including to her parents.”

“Of course,” he said at once, cringing as he thought about how horrible that would be for her. He would definitely stay by her side. He took another deep breath. “And—what about Mother?”

Severus looked away. His expression darkened even further, and he was silent for a moment. “Your mother was cursed by something extremely foul and wicked. It is a curse that was, to my knowledge, never used in Britain or Ireland—it’s a Frankish curse—which is to say, now—”

“A curse that only the Normans would use,” Tom said viciously. “I see. Of _course_ they would devise something so evil that you are uncomfortable even speaking of it. People slander my ancestors the Celts for their magic of the earth, the soul, and the Otherworld, but I have always assumed that the invaders were guilty of far worse. What does it do?”

Severus gazed at the young lord with concern. He had not heard this type of comment from him in a while. He had thought that his reconciliation and marriage with Hermione had put such thoughts out of Tom’s head… but he himself had raised the subject, and he knew he could not get out of explaining it fully now. “As you undoubtedly know, inheritance customs in this country before the occupation were quite… fluid. Among witches and wizards of property, they were even more so than among the Muggles. A lord—or a ruling lady—could designate the next ruler of that fief without regard to sex or birth order, and many of the children received their own lesser holdings when fiefs were divided up after the parent’s death.”

“Yes,” Tom said impatiently. “That is one thing that these Normans want to change, and have already begun to do so with their law about blood status and inheritance.”

“Do not mistake me, Tom—I think that our own native custom is the best one. But in their defense, it _could—_ in some cases—be in the interest of family peace to have inheritance settled by outside factors, rather than by the word of a parent. And among the Saxons, both wizard and Muggle, there were many violent family disputes over precisely that issue. It is fair to say that some of them would not have occurred if a law had mandated that the eldest able-bodied son was always the heir.” Noticing that Tom was growing angry, Severus continued hurriedly. “But not _all,_ of course—and a law like that introduces its own problems, which are most likely to occur in the same type of family that was prone to violence under English customs.”

“A family in which siblings are not deterred by the bond of blood from killing each other,” Tom finished.

Severus nodded. “In that case, a male primogeniture law would be an inducement for younger sons to try to murder their brothers. It would also be an inducement for an ambitious, amoral man to kill all the brothers and male cousins of a woman so that, at last, the family fortune would revert to her—and he could then force her into a marriage so that _he_ would get it. And that is where the curse I speak of comes from.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “In the time of Charlemagne, wizards among the Franks devised a dark curse that would preserve one person—the individual so cursed—in a magical stasis, a cold sleep close to death. This person would not awaken until every member of their family was dead.”

Tom’s jaw dropped in horror. “But—Mother—the twins—and Hermione and I—” He broke off, too appalled and outraged to continue.

“They called the curse ‘the Killing Frost,’” he said. “All plant life above the surface dies except the roots, and the plant does not grow again until spring. For a time it was quite popular, for a dark curse, being set in dozens of pieces of jewelry and other items. They usually bore the image of a dead tree… which is what that brooch that Lestrange pinned on her has. The curse was banned by the Frankish wizarding high lord early in the ninth century, and the objects were confiscated and destroyed… or so I _thought.”_

“How _vile,”_ Tom snarled. He reached for his wand in his right hand and the locket of Slytherin in his left. He fingered the gold of the locket for a second before something occurred to him. “But there is usually another way of lifting a curse. You kill the caster.” He stared ahead. “Maybe I _should_ wait until I can get Lestrange… but no, that would not be right. Carrow harmed Hermione. Lestrange harmed Mother. He belongs to you.”

Severus gazed out silently, staring at the wall on the other side of Hermione’s bed. He did not reply to Tom, and Tom instantly felt that something was very wrong.

“Severus?” he said hesitantly. “That will work, won’t it? With this curse? Killing the caster _will_ work, right?”

Severus gazed at Tom, his expression bitter. A chill crept down Tom’s body at that look.

“Yes, it will work,” Severus said, his voice ragged and cold. “That was a way of breaking such curses in the eighth century. But I examined that foul thing, and Lestrange was not the true caster of the curse. Armand Malfoy was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not how this chapter was originally going to go, as you can probably tell by this rather blatant magical cop-out. However, I lost my taste for killing such a strong female character, given how much violence against women already occurs in this story, and given what took place in the previous chapter (I didn’t want to lessen the impact of that tragedy).


	48. I Leave Mercy Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably going to upset _everyone_ for one reason or another.
> 
>  **Warning for graphically explicit violence.** In addition, this is the third consecutive chapter that is (at least it was my intention for it to be) quite sad. Finally, Tom and Hermione have some drama, and the reason for it might be disappointing to some of you.

After Severus revealed to Tom that the true caster of the curse that afflicted Merope was Armand Malfoy, Tom insisted on a further explanation of what the magic was and how it worked. The details were grim.

“It’s as though it freezes time for the person, rather like Petrification in that regard. She won’t have to eat or drink. Someone cursed could stay ‘asleep’ for decades and not age while in that condition. There were several witches—and it _was_ devised for use against women—who remained youthful maidens for years, just in a death-like sleep,” Severus said miserably. “I suppose it would defeat the purpose for a witch to become old and barren.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Of course it was devised to use against women,” Tom muttered. “Consider what group of people _invented_ it first.” He scowled. “And Armand Malfoy has created a Horcrux. I’m certain of it. Since he cast the curse on that brooch, that fact makes it even worse.” He explained to Severus how the man had been shot in the eye by Charles Granger’s arrow but had revived after Lestrange poured the silvery liquid down his throat.

“It’s _possible_ that he was on the verge of death from that wound but had not actually died,” Severus pointed out.

“‘Possible,’” Tom repeated. He forked an eye at Severus. “I would not stake my life on that possibility.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom hesitated for a moment. “I mean that we should act with the assumption that he is deathless.” He changed the subject at once. “That Muggle hated magic, but his little son is a wizard. We should send someone to protect that castle better. They will certainly make a repeat attempt, especially now that the raid on Parselhall did not kill anyone.” He corrected himself. “Except Pettigrew.”

Severus nodded, glad to have something—anything—to take his mind off Merope’s condition. “I will tell Sirius Black to do it. After that….” He sighed deeply. “I should go to Canis Manor and retrieve my children from Lady Andromeda. They will have to be nursed.” He grimaced. “I’ll need to find a Muggle woman in the village who can do it. It’s unfortunate that the Muggle woman who was your father’s second wife won’t be nursing anymore.” He rose from his chair wearily. “And Tom, there is something else.”

Tom had a feeling he knew what Severus was about to talk about, and he instantly became wary and alert. _What has Mother done?_ he thought. _She might have named me as her regent in case of her own incapacity, but she could have named him instead._

“Your mother had a legal document detailing what should happen if she were ever unable to rule,” Severus said. “I have looked at it—it is on the table in her private study for you to examine as well—and in short, she names you the Regent of Hangleton in that case.”

Tom nodded. That was how it should be, he thought.

“However, the document also says that you are to confer with me and with Lady Hermione about all decisions affecting the barony and the family.”

Tom met Severus’s eyes with his. “I would do so anyway. What does it say about… personal decisions? Decisions that only affect me, but that might relate to the war?”

Severus studied Tom for a moment. Although Tom knew that the older wizard was not a natural Legilimens like he was, he still became uncomfortable under that black gaze.

Finally Severus spoke. “One can argue that, as a member of a family and the regent to a barony, there is no conceivable decision that affects only you,” he said gruffly, “but I take your meaning: decisions that only affect you _directly._ In that case… you do what you must, Lord Thomas. As we all shall in war.” He turned aside and walked toward the door, ready to send Sirius Black to Castle Grange and then bring back the twins to Parselhall.

It had been quite some time since Severus had called him by his title and full given name. The formality was a bit disconcerting. _Had_ Severus read any of his thoughts? Tom did not know, but he supposed, as Severus left him alone to watch over Hermione, that it did not matter.

Tom was greatly tempted to go to Carrow’s cell and begin his interrogation. He truly did want information from the man; the point of the interrogation would not just be to inflict pain and vengeance. Carrow had been in Lestrange’s confidence for several years and had sworn an oath to him on Hallowe’en about three years ago. He would surely have much to tell, and Tom intended to wring him dry, executing him only after he was certain that Carrow had nothing more to say.

However, Carrow was not going anywhere. Tom was eager to take his vengeance on this traitor to his family, this malicious wizard who had tortured him and almost killed Hermione—but he would not risk being absent when Hermione awakened. She had suffered so much, with the sudden loss of her family. She would be even more shocked and upset to learn that Merope was in a magical coma for the duration of the war. Tom would not make her face that alone.

* * *

Tom stayed by Hermione’s bedside for the rest of the day, taking his meals there and brooding over the locket of Slytherin. As he had expected, it opened by a command in Parseltongue. The inside was untouched, each side untarnished and highly reflective on the inside. Tom could use it as a mirror if he wanted.

That evening, he retrieved a certain book from his bookcase and read over it again. He had done so before—years before—but it was always a good idea to refresh oneself, to make sure that one had not missed anything.

A large part of Tom did not want to do what he was contemplating. A few years ago, perhaps—but he had been immature then, he realized, and had not thought seriously about many things. This was terribly dangerous, and if he succeeded, it was horrifyingly, chillingly _permanent—_ or so he assumed, from what he read in his book. The book spoke darkly of unpleasant side effects, too… and there was his royal ancestor, the clandestine princess, who had come to a very bad end….

 _This is war,_ Tom thought, attempting to banish those thoughts. _Armand Malfoy has an unassailable advantage right now. And even though Pettigrew is dead, and presumably Parselhall cannot be breached again, I did not think it could be breached in the first place. The wards allowed a traitor to lead other people through. That is a weakness. Are there other weaknesses?_

_This war must be fought, and I must take a lead part in fighting it. And if I die… Hermione will have no one. She will be alone, and the line might even end. The twins could yet die. I cannot assume they will survive to adulthood, especially in a time of war—and even more so when their mother has been cursed with an evil Frankish spell. Hermione is not with child, and she will not be with child until at least six months from now, when she no longer has to take her daily potions regimen. If I die, the line of Gaunt is in grave danger of extinction. Mother herself said—_

_And if I die… who will fight this war in my stead? There are our allied families, but will they protect Hermione if they win? I cannot assume that, either. I do not know what terms they would demand for people like her. My “friends” from Hogwarts are loyal to me because of my royal bloodline, and they probably only respect her because someday she’ll have my children. If I died but she carried my child, they would want to protect her… but that will not be so for at least six months, possibly longer. We don’t have that long. And I do not know if my allies would, perhaps, defeat Lestrange and Malfoy only to be executed at the hands of the Weasleys and James Potter, with the Muggle king’s approval. I cannot risk that. I have to survive. I must personally win this war, whatever the cost to myself._

He gazed at the book again and sighed. He reflected, idly, that he was sighing a lot lately….

Hermione stirred in her bed. Tom’s heart skipped a beat. He set aside the book and locket and reached for her hands, hoping that this was not just an involuntary movement—

Her eyelids fluttered open. Tom released her hands and stared at her face, watching, waiting—

She needed a few moments to clear her vision, as her gaze slid from side to side, taking in her surroundings. Her warm brown eyes settled on Tom at last, and he could tell that her facial muscles visibly relaxed at the sight of him. It sent a rush of warmth through his body, and he felt bad about what he would have to tell her.

Tom could also detect the exact moment when she remembered that her parents were dead. Her face suddenly crumpled. From there the realizations piled on, and she began to speak aloud to him.

“Tom,” she said, her voice weak and hoarse, “what happened? I remember seeing a purple fire hit me, and then….” She trailed off. “What about—your mother and Severus? And the little ones?” She held her breath, not sure she wanted to know the answer. Tom’s face had twisted in pain at the mention of his mother.

“They are all alive,” he said abruptly. He cursed himself for sounding cold with her at this moment. “She took the twins to Andromeda Black. He has probably retrieved them by now and is searching for a Muggle wet nurse.”

“Why?”

“My mother… was cursed,” he said. He reached for her hands as she gasped, caressing her palms as he explained what Severus had told him about the curse.

“That’s _vile,”_ Hermione exclaimed. “How awful! We have to fight this war and win it quickly, then.”

Tom nodded emphatically. “I agree completely. But Hermione… you should not fight.” Her eyes narrowed at that, and he continued uneasily. “Severus said that you should keep to your bed for the next two days—”

“Rubbish! Perhaps I should not try to Apparate—I don’t know that I could, right now—but I can walk if I need to.”

“Hermione, please, let him examine you first,” Tom said. “I don’t want you to injure yourself irreparably, trying to do something that you shouldn’t yet. Please.” His dark eyes were wide with feeling.

Hermione was taken aback at this. He really was worried about her, she realized. She met his gaze with hers and nodded.

Encouraged, he continued. “But the bigger problem for you is that he said you will have to take two potions every day for the next six months, possibly longer. We should not attempt to conceive a child during that time, because of the potions, and he also said that you’ll be weary and—and more sluggish than usual. It wouldn’t be _safe_ for you to fight in that condition.”

She scowled across the length of the bed. “I certainly will take it up with him. I have to be in the war—especially if I have no unborn child to protect! That idea would be shocking to me if I were a Muggle woman, of course, but I’m a _witch,_ I’m part of this family, and that loathsome man _cursed_ your mother. And my parents….” She broke off, the righteous anger suddenly disappearing as the words failed her. Her shift in moods happened very quickly, and Tom could barely manage to get on the bed to lie beside her before the tears started trickling from the corners of her eyes.

He held her close, which unfortunately only seemed to shatter the dam that was holding back the flood. She shook in his arms, clinging as tightly as she could, the grip of her fingers almost painful. She lay her head down on his shoulder and continued to tremble as she wept.

It had been a much worse day for her than for him, he realized, keeping her close in his embrace. Between the tragedy of Castle Grange and the shocking events at Parselhall—being plunged immediately into a fight to the death—and now awakening to find that her foster mother, her mother-in-law, was in a deathly sleep until the end of the war… well, it was enough to make anyone sob and tremble.

 _How many more tears will be shed?_ he thought bleakly. _Two years ago, I thought I wanted this war. What a fool I was. This is what wars really mean. This is what I imagined I looked forward to. Hermione has lost the family of her blood._

 _…But she won’t lose me._ His resolve stiffened as he kissed the top of her head.

* * *

Severus returned to Tom and Hermione’s bedroom shortly, cradling both of his children. His face was drawn and lined, as if he had aged ten years that day.

“I see that you are awake, Lady Hermione,” he said. “That is good.”

She did not attempt to tell him that he could use her given name without the honorific, as he had done most of the time since they had become family. Obviously, everyone was stressed and upset.

“Regulus and Andromeda have secured their castle. Their daughter is with them now. Needless to say, all of our enemies will know now that they are allied with us, after that. They were also at your wedding… and their parents.”

Hermione looked up in alarm.

“If anyone knows how to protect a fortress, it’s the Black family,” Severus assured her. “Castle Black, their ancestral home in the north of England, has always been impregnable. It’s why Malfoy had to draw out Lord Arcturus to kill him. Our allies are fine. And I beg your pardon, _Regent,_ but I notified our five other allied families of what has happened so that they can protect themselves and prepare.”

Both Hermione and Tom detected the faint hint of sarcasm and annoyance in his words, but they did not comment. Tom nodded. “Good. You could have interrupted me to ask, of course—I was just staying beside her with a book, because I wanted to be here when she awakened—but I don’t mind that you did it alone. They needed to know.”

“They know now. As for our other allies… I am concerned about Sirius Black’s family. I just now sent the werewolf Lupin to get his wife, stepdaughter, and godson out of that cottage. They are sitting targets. He has not returned from Castle Grange—”

Hermione gasped in horror.

“Oh, not that!” he exclaimed at once. “He sent a message to me by owl saying that he has to ‘investigate further’ because _someone_ had already put up magical wards on the castle, and he cannot understand how the news of the attack could have got out immediately.”

Tom shared a quick glance with Hermione, then gazed out at Snape, a studying look on his face. “You know more than you’re telling, Severus.”

Severus scowled. “I _know_ nothing more than that.”

“You suspect, then.”

“I suspect, and so do you, obviously, but we should wait for him to return with the facts. Idle speculations serve little purpose. As for Black’s family… I would like to ask your permission to house them here.”

Tom and Hermione exchanged another glance. “Mistress Black, her daughter with her first husband, and Potter?” He scowled at the idea of Harry Potter living under his roof, but he quickly pushed that thought aside. He and Hermione were married now, and she was devoted to him. Even during their estrangement, she had been faithful. Besides, Potter was not some cocky fool using Gryffindor-type delusions of heroism and romanticism to justify such a selfish, dangerous, dishonorable act as pursuing his host’s lady wife. _Hermione is not Guinevere, I am not Arthur, and Potter is not Lancelot,_ he assured himself. _Arthur was my ancestor, but we are all better than that lot._ Potter had certainly fancied Hermione once, when they were all four years younger, but those days were gone. He had a girl now, too.

“They may come here,” he said. “There is plenty of room in the guest wing.” He released Hermione’s hand and rose from the bed. “Severus, I have been inaccessible this evening, I know—but now that she is awake, I mean to take on my responsibilities as Regent of Hangleton. You need not make any additional arrangements.” He gazed hard at Severus’s face. Yes, he supposed that this was his fault—these things _had_ needed to be done, since Malfoy and his supporters were attempting one massacre after another, and he had been confined in this room with Hermione—but Severus _could_ have come to him to discuss any of these matters with him anyway. He had to exercise his authority now or he would essentially lose it. The allies would regard Severus as the person with whom to confer.

Severus returned the gaze, understanding the subtext perfectly well. In truth, he was a little annoyed at having to have done all these things today while the lord of the castle was shut up in his bedroom. He understood Tom’s motive for staying there—to be with Hermione when she woke up—but Tom was hardly the only wizard in this castle whose wife was cursed. Indeed, for all Severus knew—and feared—he would _never_ talk to Merope again in life. The war could easily claim him first. Tom was fortunate, in that regard. He still had his wife, whereas Severus was almost a widower in one sense. If Tom wanted to take on his proper duties, it was as it should be.

Severus reflected momentarily on the fact that Tom had not even alluded to the possibility that they might die before Merope awakened. Had he simply blocked out that thought from his mind because it was so terrible? Or was there another reason? Severus suspected that he knew what Tom intended, and perhaps that was the real reason….

“I’m glad,” Severus finally said. “Your mother named you as regent, just as you are her heir. It _is_ your responsibility… and frankly, Tom, I need some time with _my_ family now, if you please.”

In bed, Hermione’s face wilted in abashment. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Of course. We’ve been so selfish….”

Severus had not aimed his words at her, and he tried to clarify that. _“You_ have been in a magical sleep, Hermione.”

That statement sent her thoughts in a different direction. “Oh, yes, that reminds me. Severus,” she said, her words and gaze hard, “Tom tells me that I am not supposed to leave my bed for two days. I think that’s rubbish. I don’t feel great right now, but I think I would be perfectly capable of walking tomorrow.”

Severus frowned and strode back to the bed. Setting down the babies on the mattress, he drew his wand and performed diagnostic spells on Hermione. “It’s possible that you will be able to walk tomorrow,” he acknowledged. “You are recovering quickly. It must be that you’re determined to get well—”

“I am!”

“If you can stand on your feet tomorrow and walk from the bed to the door without stumbling— _unassisted,”_ he said, giving Tom a pointed look, “then it means it’s safe for you. I just don’t want you to injure yourself again, Hermione. The healing process, even the immediate stage of it, takes time—even with magic to help it along.”

Hermione nodded. “I understand.”

Severus picked up the twins and shifted one to each arm. “Then I would advise you, Tom, to notify Lupin that Sirius Black’s family may come here. After that… you will need to decide what to do about Amycus Carrow.”

Hermione gave Tom an inquiring look. “I captured him,” he said, quickly nodding at Severus his permission to leave. “He is in the dungeons.” His eyes narrowed. “I already know what I’m going to do about him. He has a great deal of information. I could get it through Legilimency, but justice is also an issue in this case. The only question is whether you would like to have a go at him too. If you would, it can wait a few days.”

She blanched. “I… really don’t want any part of that, Tom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. When that ugly business with Adelaide Lestrange occurred, I cornered her in a room—the very room that the abortion occurred, in fact, and yes, I picked it for that reason,” she said, as his eyes widened in surprise and dark admiration. “And I… punished her. It made me feel dark and empty.”

“This is different. Carrow tried to kill you. He tortured me at Hogwarts, too.”

“I’m sure you are more than capable of avenging both of us. I don’t want to torture. I just want to _kill_ our enemies, quite frankly. I just want to fight in this war and _win.”_ She shuddered. “I’m afraid that we won’t—that we _can’t.”_

Tom climbed back on the bed and cradled her in his arms. He was not at all sure how she would take what he was about to tell her, but it was better to let her know than to surprise her later. He leaned over next to her ear. As he murmured in a low voice, barely above a whisper, what he intended, Hermione’s eyes grew wide. He drew back, gazing somewhat sadly at her.

Her eyelids fluttered shut for a second, then opened again. Her gaze was cynical, resigned, and yet determined. “Take care if you do, Tom. That’s exceedingly dangerous.”

He rose from the bed. “At this point, it’s more dangerous not to, I think.” Picking up his wand, his book, the locket of Slytherin, and his dark green cloak, he gave her a final potent gaze before leaving the room to head to the dungeons.

* * *

Amycus Carrow had emerged from his spell-induced state of unconsciousness when Tom opened the heavy, warded, metal door to his cell. He regarded the prisoner, who was chained and sourly awaiting his captors. Carrow forked Tom the evil eye as he entered the cell. Defiantly he spat on the cold stone floor.

Tom ignored this. Smiling maliciously, he turned to Carrow. “The tables are turned,” he remarked, fingering his wand deliberately. “Now _you_ are the one locked in a cell, wandless, at _my_ mercy.” He paused. “How much mercy I show you depends on how cooperative you are. Your life is already forfeit, of course. My mother pronounced your death sentence for treason two and a half years ago. You tortured me and attempted to kill my wife. However, you might have a… _somewhat…_ clean death under the right circumstances.” He gazed out at Carrow as a cat would gaze at a mouse it had cornered.

Carrow sneered back. “The tables will never be fully turned, because _you_ are a half-blood and a traitor to the high lord of wizards in Britain. I will never be either.”

“You will never be a half-blood, it’s true… but I rather think that you _will_ tell me everything I demand to know.” Tom continued to smile a cold, mirthless smile at the prisoner.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Tom flicked his wand. Carrow flinched in his chains, sucking in his breath, attempting to avoid screaming in pain. The manacles dug into his wrists as he pulled.

Tom lifted the curse and gazed at him. Carrow was breathing heavily, and a bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead. “That’s just a taste,” he remarked. “You can ponder _these_ questions, if you like, when I do it again. First… what do you know of Malfoy and Lestrange’s war plans?”

“I’ll… never… tell,” he panted.

Tom chuckled. “Second, what else did Pettigrew tell you about Parselhall? Are there any other weaknesses?”

Carrow sneered back wordlessly.

“Third, what is Armand Malfoy’s Horcrux, if you know?” He paused, regarding Carrow with deliberate contempt. “Of course, you may not know. You may be too unimportant to be told such a thing.”

Carrow’s eyes widened in surprise. Tom instantly used Legilimency to enter his mind, and he realized—to his dismay—that this really was a shock to Carrow. He _didn’t_ know.

“All right, I see that indeed you were too insignificant to know about that. More’s the pity; _that_ would have cut your ‘interrogation’ time in half,” he said mercilessly. “Alternately, what can you tell me about weaknesses or passwords for Castle l’Etrange?”

“You _dare_ ask me to betray my liege?”

 _“My mother_ is your rightful liege!” Tom snarled, sending a curse at Carrow. He doubled over, blood dripping from his face, his nostrils slit.

Tom observed dispassionately as Carrow spat and choked on his own blood. It would have bothered him to observe this happen to anyone except an enemy—and he realized, now, what Hermione had meant. Someone like Adelaide Lestrange did not count for this purpose. Draco Malfoy did not count. Even Pettigrew himself would not have counted, Tom realized. But Carrow had put _him_ under his wand, had tortured him for something he had not done, would have killed him that day if he had been permitted to, and _had_ attempted to kill Hermione.

Carrow spat a stream of red saliva to the floor. He attempted to seal the wounds by natural means, with physical pressure. “Pettigrew said… the entrance from his manor was the only one he knew about.”

Tom regarded Carrow with minor satisfaction. So he _would_ talk under duress. This was the least “treasonous”—to Lestrange and Malfoy—question he could have answered, but he would talk if he thought that Tom would cut his suffering short. Tom studied him, meeting his gaze and checking the statement with Legilimency. It was true.

“That’s a start,” he said loftily. He drew his wand and pointed it at the prisoner. “What of the war plans of Malfoy and Lestrange, and what about Castle l’Etrange?”

“You said you would heal this—”

Tom shook his head, smirking in cruel delight. “No, I did not.”

“Then you can fuck yourself.”

“All right.” Tom swished his wand. Carrow gasped and doubled over again as waves of invisible pain shot across his body. The flow of blood from his nose increased as he bent his head in pain from the Cruciatus.

As the seconds elapsed, Carrow suddenly went limp. He stopped straining against the curse and instead collapsed, his arms confined only by the manacles around his wrists. He hung limply from the chains, thrashing uncontrollably.

Abruptly Tom lifted the curse. He knew that this spell, if maintained for too long, could cause irreparable brain damage. It would not do for him to destroy Carrow in this way before he had learned everything the man could tell him. Reluctantly he cast a spell to seal the wounds on Carrow’s nostrils and another to clean off the blood from his face.

Carrow remained limp and listless as Tom strode forward. He grabbed a handful of Carrow’s hair and pulled his head back to allow himself to have a look at Carrow’s eyes.

A tired, yet furious, pair of eyes met his own. Tom could tell that Carrow’s mental resistance was down from the Cruciatus, so he did not hesitate. He entered Carrow’s mind and instantly began to parse the surface thoughts for the information he sought.

_The war plans of Malfoy and Lestrange…._

Carrow jerked away, breaking eye contact, and spat a thick, bloody mess at Tom, narrowly missing Tom’s robes.

Tom was incensed now. He drew back and cast another cutting curse with a circular sweep of his wand. Carrow screamed like a little boy as a ring of blood appeared around his right eye. The spell cut deeper. He strained, trying to cover it, as if that would stop the magic.

“This will carve your eye out of its socket if you don’t talk,” Tom said coldly. “And don’t think for one second that I will get squeamish and pull back.”

Carrow gritted his teeth as blood poured from his face once again. Finally, when the curse had cut through the outer layer of skin, he burst out, “Lestrange is going to attack Cygnus and Druella Black!”

Tom halted the curse. He regarded Carrow with satisfaction. “That’s it?”

Carrow blinked away blood.

“Shall I—” Tom started to swirl his wand in a circle again.

“There’s… a secret way into Castle Draconis. He thinks Bellatrix and Adelaide are there. Malfoy means to go there and demand that Lucius turn them over.”

Tom considered that. Castle Draconis used to be the home of Godric Gryffindor, before Armand Malfoy and his supporters—the parents or grandparents of his current generation of supporters—stormed the place. Gryffindor had welcomed the Normans to England, pleased to have a new magical culture represented, and they had returned the favor by killing him in his own home. It served him right, in a way, Tom thought as he recalled the old story.

But should the Riddles and their allies attempt to save Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy? Let alone Bellatrix and Adelaide Lestrange? _Adelaide doesn’t deserve to be murdered by her own father,_ he thought, _and Hermione thinks that we should try to ally with the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow. I suppose it’s worth considering a rescue._

“When?” Tom demanded of Carrow.

“I don’t know.”

Tom could tell that he really didn’t. Scowling, he pressed his question again. “And that’s it? What about their plans for my family?” He raised his wand threateningly.

“His high lordship intends to kill you lot in battle. He knows that you have been itching for this war.”

Tom smirked. “So he really doesn’t know of any other way into Parselhall. So much the better. I regret to inform you, Carrow, that _you_ will be the reason ‘his high lordship’ will fail to do that.”

Carrow glared at Tom, not comprehending Tom’s true meaning, assuming that Tom was referring to the information that he was giving now.

“And Castle l’Etrange?”

“I’ll never tell you that.”

“Oh, I think you will.” Tom swished his wand in a slightly different shape, and Carrow screamed again as a curse shredded his ears from the outer edge of the shell inward. Blood began to pool on the floor; Carrow’s shoulders and torso were already soaked and spotted.

Tom had read about the curses that he was using, of course, but he had never used them until now. Despite his bold words to Carrow, he had not been entirely sure that he could have carved out the man’s eye if Carrow had refused to talk… and watching this happen to his ears was actually very disturbing. Tom wanted to look away. He was certain that the image of shredded, bloody, flayed cartilage would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life….

“There’s a series of passwords,” Carrow gasped out.

Tom stopped the curse and cast a basic healing spell. Carrow’s ears were basically stubs now, but at least they were not bleeding anymore. Tom suddenly felt merciful—or perhaps it was the appalling curse he had just cast. He had been so sure he could do it, but he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for using it now, even on Carrow. _I’ll get the rest of it myself,_ he thought, gazing into Carrow’s eyes.

Yes, there was a series of passwords to Lestrange’s castle. Evidently the man had not desired to protect it with a blood ward, most likely because of the possibility of an illegitimate line of Lestranges who would be able to get in through a blood ward. Tom scowled as he examined the passwords—they were all in Norman French, and he hated the thought of speaking that tongue, but so it must be. _There is something to be said for using his own language against him,_ Tom thought.

He withdrew from Carrow’s mind and gazed upon him with an expressionless face. “I guess that concludes your interrogation,” he said, “unless there is anything else you wish to confess.”

Carrow realized that the end of his life had come. His eyes widened in fear, but also defiance. There _was_ something else he could tell, but it was not something Riddle had asked about. It was not something he himself was supposed to know, either. He was pretty sure that Lestrange did not even know this, that only Armand Malfoy did. He would keep this to himself, then, one last thing to hold to as he faced death. Let Malfoy himself surprise Riddle with it someday. Carrow was quite certain that the high lord would at the most opportune moment. “No. There’s nothing.”

“Very well. Any last words?”

In the span of five seconds, Carrow debated whether it would be worth it to risk a horrible, painful death by insulting Riddle. He quickly concluded that it was not. _Lestrange and Malfoy would not undergo torture for me,_ he suddenly realized—and with that, a wave of—not exactly remorse; his hatred of the Gaunt family for Morfin’s attempted rape of himself and his sister was far too severe for that—but _regret,_ perhaps, regret for a rejected opportunity, passed over him. Would Lady Merope have been a better liege than Lestrange? Her son was certainly cruel just like the rest of the line… but so was Lestrange himself.

“None for you. I’ll keep them to myself.”

Tom glared. It wasn’t as though he cared to hear anything this man had to say, but it was clear to him that this was Carrow’s final defiance. “As you wish.” He raised his wand and brought it down in a series of three slashes. _“Avada Kedavra.”_

The vivid green light struck him, and Carrow slumped in his chains, dead.

Tom breathed heavily, his eyes closing of their own accord. He needed to gather his strength. He needed to banish that awful image of Carrow’s bleeding ears, nose, and eye socket from his memories—but that, he realized, was impossible. It was one of those memories—often shocking, violent memories—that never faded. He could try a Memory Charm on himself, but that was very risky. He could easily get rid of more than he wanted.

 _Focus,_ he chastised himself, forcing himself to breathe steadily. _Focus. Calm yourself._

In a bit, he opened his eyes. He took another deep breath and brought the item of jewelry out of his belt purse. _“Open,”_ he hissed at it in Parseltongue. With a cold, final _click,_ the locket snapped open.

Tom gazed up at the ceiling wearily. _It’s necessary,_ he thought. _I have no real choice._ Sighing, he began the dark ritual that he had read about years ago.

* * *

About ten minutes later, Tom coughed for the last time. Deep red drops hit the stone floor, but they were very tiny now, little more than a spray. He winced at the splotch of blood—his own—on the stone floor. He had coughed it up several times ever since completing the ritual. His mouth tasted of copper and iron, and his head was simultaneously light and heavy.

He got himself off the dungeon floor, reaching for the gold chain of the locket, and shivered, a bone-shaking shudder that lasted much longer than it ought. He felt horribly cold, a cold that penetrated far past his skin. It went to his bone— _no—_ it went to his very soul.

Such as it was.

He gazed at the locket, feeling sick.

 _Am I ever going to be warm again?_ he thought unhappily. _The book said nothing about this. It certainly worked—my eyes blink now in those windows, and I can feel it whispering to me—but my God. This is horrible. I feel as if I will never experience warmth again._

He gazed about the cell. What a grim site this was, he thought. Carrow’s blood was still splattered everywhere, and the man’s body dangled lifelessly in chains. Tom would have to take care of that; it wasn’t fair to push it off on the house-elves.

Well, that was at least a task on which to focus. With the bone-chilling cold continuing to permeate his entire body, he released the corpse from its chains and began to clean up the cell.

* * *

Tom dropped Carrow’s body in the shallow grave next to that of Rowle and Fenrir Greyback. Shuddering, he pulled his cloak tightly around himself. Despite the very late hour, it was a mild summer night, but he still felt chilled to the core. Worse, the humidity of summer made it a clammy, sick cold.

 _I need to get back to Hermione,_ he thought. The image of Hermione in bed, waiting for him, her eyes softening as he entered the room, filled his mind—and with that, a flood of warmth spread outward from his heart, infusing him with renewed strength.

 _I cannot attempt reunification,_ Tom thought as he entered the castle and passed through the corridors. For a moment he half expected to meet Peter Pettigrew scurrying around, his beady gaze flickering, his hands wringing—but no, he would never see that again, he recalled. Sighing heavily, he returned to his thoughts. _I cannot attempt to reverse this until I am truly ready to die. The book warned that it often kills people, and I’m utterly certain that it will kill me. I think the reason I felt so cold is that I did not truly want to do this for its own sake. I wanted to do it as a means to an end. It will kill me if I attempt to undo it—and—_ Tom suddenly remembered something. The green potion he had drunk had brought out the worst memories of his life and had made him feel bad about them.

 _That is a way to reverse this,_ he thought, _and I cannot use it. I cannot drink that potion again until the end of my life._ As he ascended the stairs that led to the floor containing his bedchamber, he remembered what his mother had told him about Princess Ceridwyn, his ancestor. _She drank that potion too before she placed the athame of Morgana in the basin. She drank of it… but she still became tyrannical, unjust, and cruel later. I cannot allow that to happen, and I cannot depend on the potion as a way to resolve my own problems in the future._

He was now facing his bedroom door. He took a deep breath, pushed it open, and entered the room.

Hermione was in bed, reading a book. She looked up at him as he came in. Her eyes widened. Tom wondered for a moment what he looked like to produce that response. He gazed at his reflection in the small mirror that hung in front of the wash basin. He was a bit paler than before… a bit haggard-looking, but that would pass by the morning.

His eyes, however, glinted red.

He turned to face her again. As he did, he noticed out the corner of one eye that the gleam in that eye turned white when he focused on her.

He shed his cloak, shoes, and outer robe. He did not attempt to take off any other clothes, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted. Taking the locket off his neck, he stumbled over to the bed, collapsed on it, rolled on one side, and pressed himself against Hermione. A sob escaped him.

She set her book aside and stroked his hair compassionately. Gently she pulled the locket out of his hands, ran a single finger over it as if it were the most precious object on earth, and sighed heavily as she curled against him. She did not let go of the locket all night.

* * *

The next morning dawned far too early. Tom groaned as he awakened. His dreams had been dark and disturbing, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered everything that had happened the previous day. He sat upright in bed, wrapping his arms around his bent knees, and placed his head between them to block out the daylight for just a little longer.

Hermione stroked his back. “Tom,” she finally said. “I think I am able to walk safely.”

Tom lifted his head and looked into her eyes. He actually managed a smile. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Do you want to test it now?”

She picked up the locket and placed it around her neck solemnly. “I believe I will.” She turned to one side, swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, and uneasily got to her feet. Tom watched as she took several steps. She was careful, not attempting to do too much, but she was also not struggling at what she did attempt. His forced smile became a genuine one when she turned around to look at him, grinning from one ear to the other.

 _This is why I did that,_ he thought, getting out of bed and joining her. _It’s to protect her._ The chill, he noted, was not discernible when he was thinking about her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as long as he thought about someone he loved.

After they washed and dressed themselves in fresh clothes, they drew close and embraced. Hermione could tell that Tom needed to be close to her after what he had just done, and she freely acknowledged to herself that she needed him too. Other than Severus, he was all she had now in terms of family—at least true family. Her cousin had cast her off. And Severus had a family of his own that naturally would come first for him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked Tom in a low voice.

He shuddered. “Someday, perhaps. For now, let it suffice to say that I got some useful information from Carrow, which I will gladly share with everyone at breakfast, and I did not torture him to death. In the end, I used the Killing Curse.” He touched the locket that dangled from her neck. “I know that you have read the same book I have, because I….”

“Gave it to me to read that one day,” she said wryly. “I remember.”

“Well… you probably also remember that it spoke of possession. That won’t happen to you, because it already knows you and… feels the same about you as I do. No part of me would knowingly hurt you ever again.” He gazed ahead, feeling unhappy once more.

She squeezed his hand wordlessly. He managed a weak smile for her in return. They linked their arms together as they left the room.

Severus came to the table a few minutes after Tom and Hermione were seated. He carried the twins with him in a basket. “Good news,” he said abruptly, setting them down very close to his chair. “The werewolf found a witch in Godric’s Hollow who can nurse them. She has a child of her own, but she will be glad of the task.” His words were bitter; it was clear to Tom and Hermione that he wished Merope could nurse her own children. “In addition, he brought Marlene Black, her daughter Cassandra, and Harry Potter.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “Harry is _here?”_

“They arrived very late last night. They are having their breakfast in the large dining hall, of course, not here with us. I think you and Tom were already asleep… and I perfectly understand the reasons.” He gave Tom a knowing glance.

Tom scowled back. “I still should have been there to welcome them. I am the Regent of Hangleton.”

“There was no formal welcome,” Severus said. “You still have that chance today. For that matter, Black himself is supposed to return soon, hopefully with news about Castle Grange.”

“I have some very important news to share, myself,” Tom spoke up. “Before I… carried out the sentence on Carrow… I questioned him for information about any other weaknesses of Parselhall, Malfoy and Lestrange’s war plans, how to get into Castle l’Etrange… and… whether he knew what Armand Malfoy’s Horcrux was.” He glanced down at his lap, not really wanting to say it now. Hermione put a hand over his and squeezed.

“And?” Severus pressed.

He looked up. “He didn’t know about—that last. But he did have answers to my other questions.” Tom explained to Severus and Hermione what Carrow had told him. Their eyes grew wider with every sentence. When he repeated the words that Lestrange had put up as the way to get into his castle, Hermione frowned.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Tom,” she said, feeling bad for what she was about to say, “obviously, those were indeed the passwords yesterday. But Lestrange knows that you captured Carrow. Unless he is an utter fool, he’ll change them.”

Tom’s face fell, but in the next moment, it hardened in resolve. “He _is_ a fool, and since Armand Malfoy has him waiting on him instead of ruling his own fief, he may not have the chance to think of it. Still, we should attack him sooner rather than later. Now is the time to retrieve the basilisk of Slytherin. It may be difficult very soon.”

“I agree,” Severus said.

“I should also send my _official_ request for aid to the five allied families,” he said, “and I suppose I should also contact Cygnus and Druella Black to warn them that Lestrange means to attack them.” He gazed at Hermione. “And the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow, as you suggested.”

Hermione smiled in acknowledgment and then turned to Severus. “And now, I have a question for _you.”_

Severus stiffened. It seemed that he knew what the subject of her question likely was.

“Tom tells me that I will have to take potions every day for six months and that I will be too sluggish and tired to exert myself.” She gave him a hard gaze. “You must understand, I do not accept this. I mean to fight in this war.”

Severus looked pained. “Hermione, it is not a good idea. Certainly, you have recovered enough to walk more quickly than I expected, but you will still not recover your full vigor for many months.”

“You do _not_ know that,” she protested.

Tom turned to her. “He’s right,” he said abruptly. “If you went into battle, you would be an easy target. Even though Carrow is dead, everyone saw him curse you. They will know what it was and they will _know_ that you are not at your best.”

“It is not right that I should stay here while others fight.” Her words were determined.

Tom took her hands and pleaded with her with his eyes. “Hermione, you could _die!_ They targeted witches in the raid yesterday! They targeted Mother with that vile Norman curse, and they targeted _you_ for death! I can’t… it can’t happen,” he finished, his voice suddenly becoming barely more than a whisper. “I can’t _lose_ you.”

Severus seemed to understand that this was about to become a very personal discussion. He picked up the basket with the babies and excused himself from the room, closing the door behind him.

He got up and paced around the table before stopping in front of her chair. “What I just did… I did it because I did not want to leave _you_ alone. Please don’t do it to me. I can’t lose you, Hermione,” Tom repeated.

“You won’t,” Hermione said, rising to her feet. “I could….” She paused for a moment, gathering her nerve. “I could do it too, if it comes to it.”

Tom’s eyes popped open. “No!” he shouted. “Absolutely not! You don’t know what you are saying. You don’t know what it’s like. I would not have you go through that… and I won’t have you risk your life in battle either, when you should stay here instead to get well.” He thought for a moment before adding, “As Regent of Hangleton, I _forbid_ it.” His gaze was hard.

 _Smack!_ Tom gasped and put a hand instinctively to his cheek, which was now very hot indeed. He stared at her in shock.

“How _dare_ you!” Hermione exclaimed hotly. “You dare to tell me that I’m not allowed to fight, while you prepare to go to war partly to fight for _witches?_ You _dare?”_

He stared desperately at her, his cheek reddening. As she noticed the pink handprint, her face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said, drawing close to him, taking out her wand to try to heal him. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Tears formed in her eyes. “We should not be fighting with each other. We’ve both suffered; we are under so much tension, and we shouldn’t do this.” She looked at him, silently pleading for forgiveness for slapping him. He managed a quick nod. “But Tom… you have to understand. I simply can’t wait here while wizards fight over what becomes of me… and people like me. This is _my_ fight. My introduction to the wizarding nobility is what started everything.”

He continued to stare at her, trying to see it from her perspective. He understood her reasoning, and yet…. “Hermione, I am terrified for your life if you go into battle again. It isn’t really because of anything Severus said, and it certainly is not because I lack confidence in you. I just know that they will target you… and even if there were any more prisoners here who deserved death, I don’t think you could do—what follows. I truly don’t. I barely could.”

She glanced down at the floor, then back at his face. “I _can’t_ just stay here and do nothing in this war. What if I avoid dueling with the enemy, but go along to break through wards, lift curses, and heal people if need be?”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You would still be in danger.”

“Tom, I’m not staying here unless I genuinely cannot move about. If you want me to, you’ll have to use the Imperius Curse on me… just as Malfoy and Lestrange permitted,” she added. “And I _did_ study how to defeat it, as you advised.” She smiled mirthlessly.

“I would never do that to you.” He pulled her close and placed his hands on her waist. “Very well. As long as you don’t make a point of being a combatant. And in addition, I think you should carry an object with you that will take you back to Parselhall if a battle starts to go badly.”

She nodded. “That makes sense. There might be places that have wards up.”

“Yes, there might indeed.” He embraced her. “I just want to keep you safe, Hermione. I am not trying to control you.”

She wrapped her arms around his chest. “I understand. But _you_ need to understand that I have powerful magic and know how to use it, and I think I would be an asset in this fight.”

“Of course you would be. Just… please… when that time comes—and it will come soon, I have no doubt—do what I advised, and what you suggested yourself.”

They remained in their embrace for another minute or two before remembering that Severus had left the room. They broke apart and hurried to the door to let him in.

The sadly short-handed family had breakfast in silence. When they were finished, they left their dishes for the house-elves and left to go to the great hall, where the guests would be shown as soon as the members of the family were there.

Tom gazed at the high seat, his expression unreadable. He swallowed hard before finally taking his seat there. “Show them in,” he ordered the nearest house-elf. The creature bowed deeply and scampered away to the receiving room.

When the elf returned to the great hall, it was not with four people, but five. Behind him walked Harry Potter, Marlene Black, her little daughter Cassandra, Remus Lupin, and Sirius.

“My friends and allies,” Tom said formally, “I welcome you to my home as guests in these difficult times. You are most welcome, and I trust that your accommodations have been suitable thus far.”

Sirius nodded. “Of course… my lord.” The words were awkward on his tongue, but he managed to say them. “We greatly appreciate your hospitality and the security you offer to us.” He gazed from Severus to Hermione and then back to Tom. “You might be surprised that I am here.”

“We were expecting your return as soon as you had news about the castle of my lady wife’s relatives and who put up strong wards on it so quickly. I take it that you do?”

“Yes,” Sirius said grimly. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t originally going to happen either. Yes, that may be a surprise coming from me, but it’s true. I changed my mind after choosing not to go to the darkest/saddest place with Merope and also after seriously considering what Tom’s state of mind would be like after recent events. (This is reflected in his inner monologue.) But since this Tom is not as selfish and empathy-challenged as teenage Tom in _Choosing Grey_ (though he improves in the sequel), I did not want him to do this without some reluctance and resignation.
> 
> I also didn’t want to write out the scene itself again. If you’re interested in my headcanon for how it looks, read _Choosing Grey_.


	49. War Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mostly transitional chapter here, although there are some important plot points as well. I wrote this chapter on my tablet, because my laptop keyboard is currently broken. Sometimes the device used can make a difference, by changing the general setup that one is accustomed to while writing, so I hope this is still all right. Thank you as always for reading and commenting!

Tom and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances. That tone could not mean anything good. Hermione’s quick mind instantly leapt to a conclusion as to who had put up stronger wards over her parents’—no, her _cousin’s_ castle, but what she could not work out was how it could be so.

“I feigned to be a royal knight to….” Sirius hesitated, giving Hermione an uncertain look. “To Charles Granger,” he finished, apparently concluding that referring to the man as _“Lord_ Granger” would make her feel bad, since that title had long meant her father. “It was convincing enough. I told him that I had learned of the shocking crime against his family and was pleased to see that the castle had been secured. He freely told me who had come to him to swear assistance. I _so happened_ to know all the names he gave,” he finished sourly.

Tom had figured it out too by this time. His eyes flashed scarlet.

“James Potter was the leader,” Sirius said. “Yes, I see you have all guessed that. He had with him the Weasley lad, the one who actually _was_ knighted, as well as a couple of other Weasleys. I don’t know which ones. Frank Longbottom was there too.” He glowered at the floor, as if to indicate that this was an extremely disappointing piece of information.

“So Pettigrew wasn’t lying about their involvement,” Tom muttered.

“It would seem not,” Sirius said. He sighed. “We still have to hold his funeral. He died yesterday. It’s hard to believe.”

“So much has happened,” Tom agreed. His voice was dark and bitter, Hermione noted, though she did not suppose Tom was about to tell Sirius of the thing he had done late last night. Severus likely knew—he was very sharp and probably had guessed—but it was dangerous to let too many people into the secret.

Sirius took a deep breath. “There was one more person that your lord cousin told me had been present. I advise you to brace yourselves. Yes, you too, Severus,” he added, as Severus’s nostrils flared at what he apparently viewed as a bit of dramatic theatre. “Charles Granger informed me that this party was accompanied as well by an old, bearded man named Albus Dumbledore.”

Tom nearly rose from his seat in outrage. Harry Potter, who was standing near his godfather, winced and looked at the floor. Hermione reached for Tom’s arm to calm him.

“That is disappointing,” she said. “Did you discover how all these wizards even _learned_ of my family tragedy?”

“That is what I went to investigate. I sent a message by owl to Lord Severus stating that I was looking at that….”

Severus nodded. “I told them.”

“I had my suspicions, of course. When my brother Regulus came to Godric’s Hollow to tell me that Parselhall was under attack, he also mentioned the tragedy of Lady Hermione’s family. I think James must have been lurking as a stag and overheard.”

“Your father went looking for James Potter—among others—shortly after our wedding. He said that he could not find him,” Tom remarked.

“Well, that is what I think. He can disguise himself very well. Hunters are the only hazard he faces as a stag… and he can deflect their arrows with a shield charm if he casts it over himself before transforming. I’m quite sure that is what happened and how the Friends of the Founders learned of the tragedy so quickly.”

Harry glanced at the floor again at the mention of the group. For a second, Hermione felt for him. He and Neville had founded the group in good faith, not knowing what their parents were doing—not at all aware that they were making deals with a Muggle king that would hurt witches and possibly wizards too, that they would bankrupt the magical families of Britain, and that they would exploit other people’s tragedies for their own gain.

At that thought, the anger that had been building in Hermione throughout this narrative burst forth. Her words were heated, her voice hoarse. “As a blood relation of the current Lord Granger, I will speak plainly. I am outraged that these people would go to my cousin and ally themselves with him after a terrible family tragedy, without informing me or seeking my permission. I am _friends_ with their children!” she exclaimed. “Harry, of course—but also Neville Longbottom, and Ginevra Weasley. I am their friend, and their parents know that! How _dare_ they go to my cousin behind my back.”

“They probably did it because of their views about women,” Tom growled. “To the likes of James Potter, you don’t count because you are a woman and you’re not ‘really’ a Granger anymore.”

“Undoubtedly!” she exclaimed. “And there’s no doubt in my mind that they mean to go to the king and inform him that this is another example of what magic can do to Muggles.”

“I’m sure you are right,” Tom said. He clenched his wand tightly. Hermione glanced at him and noticed that his eyes continued to gleam bright red.

“Incidentally, Granger’s young son is a wizard,” Sirius said.

Hermione nodded. “We saw him do accidental magic.”

“So did I. It won’t be long before his father notices too. That concerns me, since he has such a negative opinion of it. I took the liberty of letting him know that his ‘allies’ who came by were themselves wizards….”

Severus broke into a smirk. “Oh, well done,” he said in spite of himself.

“He was not impressed,” Sirius said. “It didn’t matter to him that these wizards had come to protect his castle. He is deeply against magic. It’s ironic, because I think he may be a wizard himself. Not very powerful, if so… and I am not sure of it—it’s hard to tell sometimes with untrained wizards who are weak—but he might be.”

Hermione considered that. “He is my first cousin through both father and mother,” she said. “He has the same blood I do in both lines. He could be.” Oddly, her thoughts toward her cousin warmed once again at this idea.

“After the war, we’ll have to go to them to persuade the man to change his views,” Tom said. “But it’s not a priority now. As it is, we already have to fight on two fronts. It is a matter of honor now, not just wartime necessity, that I strike a crippling blow against Armand Malfoy soon… I have some ideas about that… but it appears that we must also keep an eye on the Muggle king and undermine these wretches at every opportunity. If they will use my lady’s personal tragedy to further their own blood-traitor agenda, they will certainly use a war between wizards to make the Muggle king see magic in the worst possible light.”

“‘Blood-traitor agenda’?” Harry Potter murmured half under his breath. Sirius’s wife nudged him, but Tom heard.

“Why should Malfoy’s people own that term?” he proclaimed. “Wizards who act against other witches and wizards certainly fit. I fully intend to use it with that meaning.”

Sirius and Marlene exchanged uneasy glances. “As you like, my lord,” Sirius muttered. He sighed and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There was one more thing. You may notice that Harry’s mother is not present.”

Hermione suddenly felt trepidation.

“She moved back into the Potter cottage after James left… I think that when he is not spying as a stag, he is with the Weasleys or in Hogsmeade. But we did look for her, and she wasn’t there. I will let my wife explain,” he ended bitterly.

Marlene stepped forward. “Lily and I have been friends since childhood,” she said. “When she was denied the right to go to Hogwarts, I was outraged for her. I let her look at my schoolbooks whenever I was in Godric’s Hollow. She has a great talent for brewing potions….”

Hermione nodded. “Harry told me so at Hogwarts.”

“Evidently, others knew it too. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have conscripted her into their service as the family potionmaker,” Marlene said bluntly.

Tom, Hermione, and Severus all looked appalled. Severus spoke first, his voice cracked with disgust. “Are you implying that Lucius… that is to say….”

“Oh, no,” Marlene assured him. “Not that. It’s impossible for us to know for certain, of course, but there have never been any rumors or allegations around the village that Lord Lucius forced himself on women. He seems to have great respect for his lady wife, too. We think that he really did want Lily to make potions. Why, we do not know.”

“I have some ideas,” Tom muttered, too low for the guests to hear. He raised his voice. “I thank you for your news. Later today we will hold the funeral for Peter Pettigrew, and I will consult with my ally Lord Regulus Black about what to do next in this war that has broken out. I expect that my other allies—five families, perhaps six, if the Greengrass family comes—may come as well. You will certainly have seats at my war table,” he said, smiling for them.

Hermione wondered if it was a real smile, but she supposed it did not matter. He at least understood that Sirius and Marlene Black had to be there, since the intention was for one of their future children to wed his eventual heir—and since Sirius’s knowledge of the Friends of the Founders was clearly vital.

“Now,” Tom continued, “you may retire to your quarters in the castle and make yourselves at ease. The house-elves will attend you as needed.” He gazed out, clearly sending the message that the audience was over.

* * *

Severus asked to be introduced to the nurse that Lupin had found. To his surprise, he knew her. Ailith Abbott, aunt of one of Tom and Hermione’s former schoolmates, had come to Parselhall with her husband and baby, eager for a better opportunity than Lucius Malfoy was apparently granting the family as villagers of Godric’s Hollow.

“We were involved in… that _incident,”_ the woman said to Severus in a low voice. “The one years ago.”

Severus nodded curtly. “I understand perfectly. Your service here is much appreciated, and your husband… if he is willing to take the oath to the Regent, he may have the opportunity for advancement to a knighthood eventually.”

Abbott was more than willing to do just that, and it was accomplished quickly, while they still awaited the arrival of their noble allies.

Tom felt strange about accepting oaths from others as lord of Hangleton. He had certainly made his school friends swear an oath of loyalty to him, but it was very different to accept one as the lord of a fief. _Mother is not dead,_ he reminded himself after the little ceremony was concluded and the Abbotts had been given quarters in a little-used part of the castle that had been used to house knights in centuries past. _She is just sleeping, in a way. And we are going to fight the war that will end in her restoration. In the restoration of many things,_ he amended.

* * *

Although she was glad to see that the poor twins would be cared for, Hermione continued to fume about the imposition of the Friends of the Founders. Two of the wizards were the fathers of friends of hers—and possibly three, if Arthur Weasley had been present. Otherwise, the Weasleys were the brothers of a friend of hers. Clearly, that friendship meant nothing to them.

 _Tom is right,_ she thought. _My friendship with their children means nothing because of my sex and the fact that I’m married… into a family that is not allied with them, at that._

And _Dumbledore_ had been there! According to Sirius, Dumbledore had not been the leader in her cousin Charles’s eyes, even though he certainly had the most powerful magic of that group. That choice of purported leadership was probably intentional, Hermione thought. Of course a Muggle who knew about magic would be suspicious if a frail-looking elderly man appeared to lead a group of warriors. However, when they actually had put up the wards, Hermione did not doubt for one second that Dumbledore was the chief spellcaster.

Thinking about that brought about a resurgence of outrage in Hermione. _So,_ she seethed, _Dumbledore will protect my cousin, but not my parents. I suppose my parents were of no use to him, but a man who is aggrieved at Dumbledore’s enemies is._

She expressed that thought to Tom in the family parlor as they discussed what they had just learned. He frowned in consideration.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he agreed. “I’ve been convinced for a while that Dumbledore knew exactly what the Weasleys were doing and approved of at least part of it. There was that conversation he had with Professor McGonagall that you overheard. I’m also concerned, though, about this news about Lily Potter.”

Severus was holding the twin babies in his lap. When Tom uttered Lily’s name, he winced.

“What do you think it means?” Hermione asked.

Tom sighed. “Lady Narcissa is not stupid. If I could deduce that Armand Malfoy is drinking unicorn’s blood, I’m quite certain that someone intelligent within the family itself would also work that out.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “You mean to say that—Lily—” She could not complete the sentence.

Tom nodded. “Lestrange must be making it for Malfoy right now. I expect that is why the old man wants someone to wait on him. But the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow would know that if Lestrange is killed, they are next in line for that task.”

“Of course the person who drinks it is cursed,” she said. “Would the curse also afflict the slayer of the unicorn? Or the one who harvests its blood and prepares the potion?”

“I don’t know,” Tom confessed. “But it seems as though Lucius is not taking his chances.” He gazed at her. “This is why I did not want to state my suspicions in front of Potter.”

“Of course,” she said. “That’s horrible. And to think I thought we could _ally_ with those Malfoys!”

Tom gazed at her with a sardonic look in his eyes. “We may yet have to. My plan is to attack Lestrange, and question him about Malfoy’s Horcrux before I kill him, but he may be just as ignorant about that as Carrow was. But if the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow don’t want to play Lestrange’s part….”

“Then they might be willing to obtain that information to have vengeance against him,” Hermione finished. She still found it extremely distasteful, but she understood Tom’s reasoning. “We should try to rescue Mistress Potter, though.”

Tom looked much older than his age. “Hermione, I don’t think that can happen except in the context of an alliance offer to the Malfoys.”

“Then let’s make that offer.”

“It is definitely something I will discuss with our allies when they arrive.”

* * *

Arrive they did. Regulus, Andromeda, and Nymphadora Black came first, and Tom made certain not to let Sirius see his brother’s family without being informed of that fact in advance. Tom found it petty and childish, but nothing could be allowed to jeopardize the Black alliance, including the ill-will of an estranged brother.

“It might be a good idea to let Black—Sirius, that is—know of the long-term plan,” Severus advised Tom after they had welcomed Regulus’s family. “And _before_ the rest of the allies come.”

“You think there will be a problem?” Hermione asked him.

Severus scowled. “My opinion of Sirius Black is rather well known in this household by now. I hope I am mistaken, but if the man does have a tantrum, better that nobody else see it.”

“Lupin can be sent to guard the castle, then,” Tom said. He rose to do that, returning to the parlor in a few minutes.

“Regulus should keep an eye on his daughter,” he remarked when he had returned, eyes glittering in amusement. “She and the werewolf are _flirting._ But,” he continued, a more serious expression on his face, “it’s done. Let’s bring in the Black brothers… and their wives.”

Regulus, Sirius, and the two women were soon shown to the parlor. Sirius seemed on edge. He could not know what was afoot, Hermione assumed, but he must know that whatever it was, it was something he was not going to like.

“I need to inform you,” Tom said, “that your brother and my mother made an agreement last summer that concerns you. More accurately, it concerns your family.”

Hermione noticed something canine in Sirius’s response to this—almost as though he had hackles on his back that went up.

“What I am about to say refers, of course, to the time after our war is over and won. But, in short, it’s a condition of our families’ alliance that my eventual heir will marry one of your children.” Tom had decided it best to be blunt about it, rather than playing games. Sirius was a Gryffindor, after all.

He began to question the wisdom of that decision as Sirius’s face turned a deep shade of pink. His wife glanced at him in alarm, and Andromeda in frustration, as if she had seen this before.

“You made a decision like _that_ without telling me?” Sirius finally exploded at his brother. Regulus flinched. “You bartered away my future children—no offense,” he said to Hermione more so than Tom, which the latter noticed—“but this is the kind of scheming that made me leave my family!” He rose from his seat and stormed to the nearest window. “I do not want my children to live this way,” he said, his voice suddenly savage. “I gave up being the heir to a great house because I could not stand noble scheming and blood politics—and you, ‘brother,’ have the presumption to pull me back into it! Without even telling me!”

Regulus had been waiting for the storm to blow over before he spoke. He waited for Tom’s nonverbal permission, given as a nod, before attempting to calm his brother. “Sirius,” he said, “this does not entail making you the heir again.” He attempted to keep the pride and irritation out of his voice but did not quite succeed.

Sirius’s nostrils flared. “So,” he drawled, “you inherit, you speak for our accursed parents, but you still claim _my_ children! You say you want _one_ of them to marry a noble heir. What if Marlene and I have children all of the same sex as _theirs?”_

“Then the contract will be renegotiated.”

“And what of the rest of our children?” he continued. “Won’t they be jealous of their brother or sister? Or perhaps one of the others turns out to like the Riddles’ child better than the one ‘chosen.’”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Hermione said, attempting to reassure him at least on that point. “I myself insisted that it would have to be the child of yours who most desired the match, if that happened.”

Sirius dismissed that. “That’s the least of the problems with it. Merely by being part of the same family in which this match takes place, our other children will get drawn into noble scheming and noble politics—which means that I will too.” He walked over to the seats and pulled Marlene gently from her chair by her hand. “I won’t permit it. This is not going to happen.”

Severus was angry now. He rose from his own seat and glared Sirius down. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he exclaimed. “‘I, I, I.’ You aren’t concerned about your other children—you don’t have any! It’s entirely hypothetical. You are concerned about _yourself._ That’s the only person you have ever cared about!”

Sirius whirled around, glaring. “I would like to know what _you_ have planned, _Snivellus,”_ he snarled. “Do you intend to usurp Riddle?”

“Hold your tongue, Black,” Tom said sharply. He got to his feet. “I am clearly named as my mother’s heir and regent. You would be wise not to try to obfuscate your own troublemaking by trying to drive a wedge between Severus and me. As for the _issue at hand,_ I would phrase it in a more politic way. You know that Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange have already struck a terrible blow against us. You know that James Potter and the Weasleys are betraying witches and wizards to the Muggle king. The alliance between our families is _important._ You cannot just throw that away.”

“All you nobles think the same way!” Sirius exclaimed. “Why can we not just fight by your side? Why do we have to give you one of our children?”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Andromeda spoke up. “I think it’s because Lord Black, _your father,_ would otherwise fight against the Riddle family for the high lordship! This alliance should forestall that sort of conflict.”

Sirius scoffed. “Father won’t be dissuaded from something he wants for a reason like that. No offense, but the Riddles’ children will be half-blood. I am not even sure if ours will be pureblood ‘enough,’ in his mind. Why would he sacrifice his own ambition, if he does indeed have it, over this match? It is not going to happen, Regulus. I do not consent. And… this means that Marlene, Cassandra, and I had best leave this castle. It is up to Harry whether he wishes to remain.”

Tom’s patience finally reached its end. “How can you be so selfish?”

“Selfish!”

“Selfish!” Tom shot back. “Are you going to destroy our families’ alliance over this? Whether you like it or not, those _are_ the terms of the alliance! It’s actually quite generous for this type of contract among nobles. Have you any idea what kinds of sacrifices others of us have made for the war?” he exclaimed, his voice breaking at that. His dark eyes widened in pain. “If you knew what _I_ have sacrificed… or Hermione,” he added quickly, not wanting the Blacks to start to speculate what his sacrifice might have been. “What we are asking of you is a _compliment!”_

“I am sure you see it that way,” Sirius barked. “You have lived as a noble for just four years, but you think exactly like one. I am sorry, Lord Thomas, but I do not consent to this arrangement, and I will not impose upon your hospitality any longer.”

“I did not give you leave to depart,” Tom said, his voice suddenly cold. Hermione glanced at him. Sure enough, his eyes gleamed red again.

Sirius whirled around in fury. He took a look at Tom’s face, drew back in surprise, and sneered. “Unless you are making my entire family your prisoners, I do not require your permission to return to my own home.”

“You aren’t _safe_ at that place!” Regulus protested feelingly. “Sirius—don’t do it!”

Marlene took his arm anxiously. “Sirius, he has a point. It’s not safe there anymore.”

He shook his entire body in a very canine way, then turned to her. “You do as you like, then. I won’t endanger you and your daughter. But I will be perfectly safe as Padfoot.”

 _“Sirius—”_ Regulus’s sentence was cut off as his brother stormed from the parlor.

The snap of the door behind him echoed potently. The remaining witches and wizards faced each other. No one was sure what to say.

Finally Severus spoke. “What did I tell you?” he muttered. “A tantrum.”

“He’ll come back,” Regulus said. “He’s angry right now. He will return once he thinks it over and sees reason.”

Marlene and Severus looked deeply skeptical.

“I just hope nothing happens to him first!” Hermione exclaimed, upset. “Pettigrew likely knew of his Animagus form. Who knows whether he told Malfoy and Lestrange about it? And James Potter definitely knows what his form looks like.”

“I could send Lupin to track him down and attempt to reason with him,” Tom mused, “but my other allies are expected soon. We have to discuss war strategies, with or without Sirius Black.”

* * *

The other allies arrived quickly in succession: representatives of the Flints, the Fawleys, the Notts, the Averys, the Wilkeses, and—Tom, Hermione, and Severus observed with pleasure—the Greengrasses. At Hermione’s urging, Tom invited Harry Potter to the conference as well. He proudly showed them into a room with a long oval table and several chairs and summoned a house-elf to provide food and drink. Hermione smiled; he was growing into his role as regent well. She was proud of him. He took her arm and sat down with her. Severus sat next, on Tom’s other side, the twins attached to him by a double sling made of two lengths of grey fabric. The others then took their seats.

“My friends and allies,” Tom began formally, fingering the silver goblet before him. He gazed outward. A banner of House Riddle, with its three-headed snake and elder wreath, hung behind him, and on the opposite wall was a Celtic Triquetra. He was proud of Mother for putting it up in blatant defiance of Armand Malfoy. “I have invited you here because, as you know by now, we have been attacked and have suffered losses. My lady wife’s parents were killed by Malfoy, Lestrange, and their allies. In the same day, shortly after being driven from the Granger castle by a likely Muggle-born wizard who is my lady’s cousin—”

Hermione wondered when the speculations had congealed into “likelihood” in Tom’s mind. Perhaps it was simply better politics to designate Charles an untrained wizard, even a Muggle-born one, than a Muggle. _Yes,_ she thought, _that is probably it. The message is that he is one of us in blood, and that he also was harmed by the policies of the Malfoy regime. And it might even be true. It will certainly be true for his son if we don’t win._

“—Lestrange and eight of his allies stormed Parselhall. Lestrange cursed my lady mother, the rightful Baroness of Hangleton, with a foul curse from the Continent that even the Frankish wizarding lord of the early ninth century saw fit to ban. Yes,” he said as several of the lords present gasped, “it was the curse that they called ‘the Killing Frost.’ This evil, barbaric spell has been unknown in this beautiful country until Malfoy brought it inside the walls of this very castle. And yes, although Lestrange activated it, the caster was Armand Malfoy. This is why my lady mother is not among us today and why I speak in her stead as Regent of Hangleton. She will not awaken until Malfoy is dead. And as it is, that may pose a difficulty. Based on the description of the battle of Castle Grange by my lady’s cousin, I believe that Malfoy has rendered himself deathless by a Horcrux—”

Several of the nobles groaned. Tom observed their reactions and, to his relief, did not see any shocked disapproval among them. He did not intend to tell them his own secret, but it was possible that over the course of the war, he would be found out. The nobles’ reaction now was annoyance over the difficulty that this posed for removing Malfoy, not moral outrage.

“—and I obtained proof in the same interview that Malfoy drinks the blood of unicorns to restore physical health.”

 _There_ was the moral outrage. Lady Greengrass huffed in contempt. Lords Nott and Fawley gasped. The others were too stunned to physically respond.

Grimly satisfied, Tom continued. “We also lost a vassal in the battle of Parselhall, Peter Pettigrew.” He decided not to tell them that Pettigrew had betrayed the family in the first place. “Fortunately, the invaders suffered losses too. The traitor werewolf Fenrir, a former vassal of my mother’s family who assumed the name Greyback, is dead, as is another traitorous former vassal, Amycus Carrow, and a knight called Rowle.” He paused, and the guests dutifully raised their goblets in a silent toast.

“However, this is only the beginning. Lestrange and Malfoy still live. As you all know, they have restricted the traditional English—and Scottish and Welsh—rights of witches over the past four years. They have also shown contempt for the native culture of these islands, the Celtic heritage that everyone in this room has in some part.” He gave Hermione a quick smile. She supposed that it was probably true. “They have made it illegal to observe the old magical holidays, the most potent days of the year, which our ancestors in their wisdom marked as such. They have made it illegal to cast spells in Gaelic, restricting an entire body of magic from usage. They dissolved our ancestral ruling body, the Wizengamot—a body on which most of you would have been seated—and replaced it with a tiny Council representing only three families, only one of which was from Britain. And then they murdered the patriarch of that great house, whose representative and heir, Lord Regulus Black, is among us today.”

The families toasted Regulus in respect.

“This is the magnitude of the threat we face on one side. It is nothing less than a threat to our magical customs, traditions, history, and knowledge as a people. However, a different threat lurks in the shadows as well. A self-appointed group of dispossessed wizards curries favor with the Muggle king, answering to no witch or wizard but themselves. They have made a bargain with the king that will be just as restrictive for witches of Britain as the vile laws that Malfoy has made, and they have an agenda that threatens the freedom of all magical people. These people, who include the well-known blood-traitor family the Weasleys—”

Several of the nobles snorted in disdain. Hermione wondered momentarily why he had left out Dumbledore’s involvement. She supposed that that might be too intimidating. These people already knew that they had to defeat the High Lord of wizarding Britain and his deputy. They had just learned that another threat awaited them as well. It might scare them away if they knew that they would have to work against Albus Dumbledore, to boot. _I hope he is not that involved,_ she thought. _In the conversation he had with Professor McGonagall, he seemed convinced that the Weasleys did not mean what they said about witches. He never treated witches differently to wizards at Hogwarts when I was there, either. Perhaps he has simply blinded himself to the truth about his allies, as McGonagall said. After all, he might not have known that Tom was serious about his challenge to Malfoy. He might have thought that the Weasleys were the only alternative to the current order available._

“—have gone to the king to tell him of the murder of my wife’s family, using _her_ tragedy for their own ends, without her permission or even prior knowledge! This too shows the degree of their disdain for witches. They also intend to let the goblins of the Continent plunder wizarding homes of every piece of treasure that these goblins _claim_ to own.” Tom paused and sat back smugly, certain that this would garner a response.

He was correct. The guests shouted in outrage. Lord Flint, that loudmouthed, somewhat loutish nobleman who had catcalled at both Riddle family weddings, exclaimed an oath above everyone else in the room.

Hermione glanced quickly at Harry. He looked utterly miserable. He had, of course, already known about the Weasleys’ plans, and Tom had not named James Potter as a conspirator in the scheme—probably for Harry’s sake, Hermione realized—but he still was taking this hard.

Hermione decided to speak up. “We have good reason to believe that the children of these conspirators—some of them—do not support their parents’ plans,” she said. “It is our hope to recruit them to our side and offer them sanctuary.” She gazed at Tom pointedly. They had not discussed that openly, but now that she had said it, it would not do for him to publicly contradict her. He looked surprised but did not seem to object even privately.

“In addition,” she continued, “it is our eventual hope to secure… if not a formal alliance, at least the cooperation of Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa Malfoy. There are reasons to believe that they do not approve of what Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange are doing.”

“A sound idea,” Lady Avery said.

“There is a great weapon available to the descendants of Salazar Slytherin, of which I am one. Yes,” Tom said as several pairs of eyes went up, “you know of the legend. I can tell you that it is true. A basilisk sleeps in the bowels of Hogwarts, awaiting the orders of its true master, a Parselmouth of the line of Slytherin. I will retrieve this beast from Hogwarts in short order, and it will be a powerful weapon in our armory.”

“Well said,” spoke up Lady Wilkes. “I am proud to fight by your side, Lord Thomas, and I expect I speak for everyone else here.”

There was a general murmur of agreement. Tom gazed out, his face purposely expressionless, but inwardly he was as smug as he had ever been before.

* * *

Peter Pettigrew had a much more dignified and respectful funeral than either Tom or Severus felt he deserved, with the representatives of seven wizarding noble families—including the great House of Black—present, but in the end, he had fought beside them and given his life for the family.

Lupin reappeared in time to see his old friend sent off, and it was hard for Tom and Hermione not to notice the fact that he stood next to Nymphadora Black as they and then Severus spoke in turn. Sirius Black did _not_ return—at least as a human wizard. However, after he and Hermione had spoken, Tom nudged her and gestured surreptitiously in the direction of the grove of trees on the castle grounds. A pair of eyes were illuminated in the fading light. Hermione squinted and managed to make out the form of a black dog. She stifled a snort. At least Sirius had the basic decency to be present for a friend’s funeral. She hoped that the man would get past his silly tantrum soon.

After that event, Tom consulted with Severus to write the letter to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. It was not asking for a formal, sworn alliance, but instead expressed compassion for their difficulties and the concern and anxiety that they undoubtedly felt after the murders of Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black, as well as the shocking threats against Lady Lestrange and Lady Adelaide by the lord of that family himself. Unspoken was the implication that the Riddle-Snape family knew that the Malfoys were harboring the female Lestranges.

Hermione had purposely not participated in the writing of that letter. She wanted to have a talk with Harry. She understood why Tom had not mentioned Harry’s mother’s captivity before their allies. The plight of a common-born “Mudblood” would not likely sway any of them, since it took everything they had to feel rapport with a noble one, and it would not endear Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy to any of them if Tom voiced his suspicion about _why_ Lily Potter was a captive. But as bad as the idea was, Harry deserved to know. He was not a child anymore.

 _None of us are,_ Hermione thought sadly. She reflected on the innocence that she had still had when she first set foot in Parselhall four years ago, so eager to learn about magic, so entranced with the handsome young man she had just met who could _do_ magic. Her parents—she stifled a sob and felt her throat grow hard at the memory—had had the same idea that she had about the two of them. As she passed by the library, she remembered that first time in it, when she and Tom had explored the hundreds—thousands—of magic books. It was new to him too at the time.

 _He told me about objects that could think for themselves,_ she suddenly recalled. That brought another lump to her throat, and she clutched the gold locket that dangled from her neck. It was warm to the touch and seemed to pulse faintly. Deep in her mind, she felt Tom’s presence—but that too was tinged with sadness. This should not be. Such a deed should not have been _necessary._

 _We are not innocent anymore,_ she thought. She reached the personal quarters of Sirius Black’s family and knocked before entering. To her relief, Marlene Black and her young daughter were there. She had intended to leave the door open anyway, but it was still a bit risky to go into another young man’s quarters alone with so many noble guests present who might see and get the wrong idea.

Harry had a cot on the other side of the room, behind a privacy screen. He emerged from it and sat down in a chair next to Hermione.

“I need to tell you something,” she said in a low voice. “Your mother… I don’t know if anyone has told you _why_ Lucius Malfoy wanted her as a potionmaker…?”

Harry shook his head.

She took a deep breath. “I hate to have to tell you this… but you heard about Armand Malfoy and the unicorn blood.”

“Oh _no!”_ Harry exclaimed. He had instantly made the deduction.

“I’m afraid so,” Hermione said. “Currently we think that Lestrange prepares the potion for him, and likely slaughters the creatures too, but if anything should happen to him—or perhaps even if it doesn’t, if Malfoy becomes displeased with Lucius—well, more displeased than he currently is—he might force Lucius to do it. And Lucius probably foresees that.”

“That bastard can’t do that to my mother!” Harry hissed, keeping his voice low. “Why does Tom want to ally with them? Why do _you?”_

“Partly to save her! But what Tom said is true as well. We can’t defeat Armand Malfoy without knowing what object he has used to house part of his soul. He _can’t die_ while he has that thing, Harry. That means that Lady Merope won’t awaken unless every member of her line dies first!” _And what that means for Tom, I do not want to think,_ she thought with a shudder.

Harry was very displeased still, but he did not argue. “We have to save her,” he muttered. “If Tom won’t try to get her out of that castle before Malfoy forces her to do _that,_ I might just join Sirius.”

Hermione gazed uneasily at him as she left the room.

* * *

As they awaited the Malfoys’ reply, Tom finalized his plans to retrieve the basilisk. With Hermione’s assistance, he composed a slimy, insincere epistle to Dumbledore thanking him for warding Charles Granger’s castle after the terrible murders. The implicit message, of course, was that Tom and Hermione—and Severus—knew all about his associations, and that he had best not make difficulties about the basilisk. The letter also referenced the difficulty of their noble ally Lord Black in acquiring an audience with the High Master.

 

 _We hope that there will be no such difficulties in obtaining the basilisk of Salazar Slytherin and removing it from the castle, especially since this is in accordance with your expressed wishes that the beast should be removed,_ Tom wrote. _We have a practicable plan for transporting it and a secure location in which to store it, a site that is actually safer than its current chamber at Hogwarts._

 

Tom had discovered that, as Regent, he had access to the vault that held the dragon skeleton and the ancient Celtic altar. He was not sure how to feel about that. It was very convenient, of course; he was not sure where he would have put the basilisk otherwise. But at the same time, the _reason_ that he had access was dreadful. _Mother does not have to eat or drink,_ he thought as he left the place after confirming that he could get inside the blood ward. _She is in a magical stasis that does not require any of the essentials of life except air… and this ward recognizes me as the lord. Does it not count Mother as alive?_ Tom knew that she was, but this was still disturbing, and it brought sad thoughts to his mind.

 _What will Mother think of what I’ve done?_ he thought, ascending the steps. He passed by the cell in the dungeons where he had killed Carrow and performed the Horcrux ritual. A shudder passed over him at the memory, and the all-consuming cold that he could keep at bay by thinking about his loved ones returned for a minute. _Will she understand? I did it for the very reason that she seemed to think acceptable._

He reached the stairs that led to the ground floor and began to climb. It was a relief to enter the main living spaces of the castle once again. He passed by the small family parlor. The door was open, and Severus was holding the twins, murmuring to them in a low voice. Tom decided not to interrupt.

Hermione was waiting for him in their bedchamber, the locket of Slytherin around her neck. It was clearly something like a sacred object to her. She was red-faced, and Tom noticed streaks down her cheeks that could only be tear marks. She had been mourning her family again. It was only to be expected; the grief would be raw for a long time, but his compassion for her overwhelmed him. He got on the bed and pulled her close.

“I’m going to Hogwarts tomorrow,” he said, holding her. “I can easily transfigure something into a cart for the basilisk and cover it with cloth that I’ve charmed to keep sounds from penetrating. That way, even bad luck on the roads—encountering a farmer who is taking chickens—won’t result in disaster. There are ships on the coast, and I can use magic to make one travel swiftly—and against the wind, if need be.”

Hermione hugged him back. “I feel better about this than I thought I would,” she said. “Part of it is that I know it’s necessary to have it, but I also know that the basilisk won’t kill you—and if you encounter any wizards who try, you have it as a weapon.”

“Precisely.”

“Try to find out what you can from Hogsmeade,” she urged. “I just cannot believe that Neville’s parents support what James Potter and the Weasleys want to do. He never said anything about them that would indicate that. Try to find out _why_ they are doing this.”

He considered for a moment. “All right. I will do my best.”

Despite everything, despite the grief for her parents that continued to gnaw at the back of her mind, Hermione desired Tom very much. She felt odd about it, and a little guilty—was it right to feel desire, even for one’s spouse, soon after a tragedy? Her parents surely would understand… they would want her marriage to remain happy, and this definitely contributed.

Tom seemed to be struggling with much the same conflict, though for him, it was that his mother was in a coma. As soon as Hermione realized this, she embraced him fervently.

“They would understand,” she murmured into his ear. “They would understand. We have to continue with our lives, and it may be several days before we see each other again. We _should_ do this tonight.”

He considered for a moment before breaking into a smile. He pulled her close for a kiss.


	50. Lord of Serpents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and thank you once again! This chapter was meant to include an attack on Lestrange's castle, but it got out of hand. That's next chapter, I promise!

_Hogsmeade._

To attempt to keep the unpleasant business at hand out of his mind, Tom recalled the pleasant morning he had had with Hermione as he waited outside the gates of Hogsmeade. Almost immediately upon awakening, they had made love again—despite having done it the night before—and finally, after a filling breakfast, Tom had Apparated away to Scotland. He would not be able to Apparate back, unless this trip went badly and he failed to retrieve the basilisk.

_If Dumbledore has somehow managed to kill it, he will regret it,_ Tom swore to himself. _I cannot imagine how he could get into the Chamber of Slytherin, since Mother and I are the only Parselmouths—well, she does think that the twins are, but they can’t speak. But who knows what resources Dumbledore may have? If he has a way, he will use it._ Tom fumed as he gazed up at the cloudy sky. He had to admit that he respected Dumbledore’s resourcefulness, but he did _not_ respect its being used against him.

A witch and a wizard were finally approaching the gates. Tom made his best effort to put a pleasant expression on his face as they unlocked the gates and let him inside the village.

“Mayor Frank Longbottom,” the wizard said. “This is my wife, Alice. We know who you are… Lord Thomas.”

Tom scowled despite himself. “Then do you know why I am here?”

“The High Master told us that you planned to retrieve something from the castle.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “It’s something that belongs to my family.” He gazed at them. “And I also have a few questions for you.”

Longbottom bristled. “Let us go indoors for that. It looks like rain anyway. We will notify the High Master of your arrival, and he will admit you shortly, we think.”

“That’s nice to know.” Tom was unable to keep the snideness out of his voice as he accompanied the Longbottoms to their home.

He gazed around scornfully once inside—not because it was a small cottage, exactly; he would not have done so in the house of a friend, but because the Longbottoms were part of an organization engaging in questionable actions and he meant to put them ill at ease by any means. Without being invited, he took a seat in the largest chair in the room, well aware that it was likely Longbottom’s own chair.

The couple exchanged glances but did not say anything as they sat down. Tom gazed out imperiously at them. “Well,” he said curtly, “we are indoors. Mayor Longbottom… where is your son? I expected to see him here.”

“He is at the home of Arthur Weasley,” Longbottom said, suspicion in his words.

“I see. He does fancy the Weasley girl, of course.” Tom curled his fingers over the arms of the chair. “Now… my _real_ questions. First, you were at Castle Grange a few days ago, the castle of my lady wife’s late parents, to cast wards to protect her cousin’s family. Why? How can you presume to do such a thing without telling her, knowing that she is a noble lady and your son is her friend?”

Longbottom drew back at the verbal attack. “I merely reinforced the wards that High Master Dumbledore cast,” he said. “I should think that she would be grateful for the aid, given what had just happened to her parents!”

Alice Longbottom grimaced, clearly thinking it a very bad idea for her husband to challenge Riddle.

Tom felt a spark of anger for a moment, but then his face blossomed into a smirk. “Perhaps we both would,” he said, “if not for the fact that Dumbledore took _no_ interest in protecting her parents! The castle was warded before Lord Malfoy attacked, but it would have been better if he had added his protection. Why didn’t he?” Tom did not wait for them to respond. He leaned forward to make the kill. “Might it have to do with the fact that you and he are currying favor with the Muggle king, and the deaths of Muggles at the hands of wizards would further your agenda?”

Longbottom sputtered in protest. “Lord Thomas—you—”

Tom stared back impassively. “Do you deny it?”

“I certainly deny it!”

That surprised Tom. He attempted to catch the man’s gaze with own to perform Legilimency, but Longbottom seemed to know that he had the ability and would not allow himself to make eye contact. “What do you deny?” Tom finally said. “I _know_ that you are part of the group called the ‘Friends of the Founders.’ You _have_ worked with James Potter and the Weasleys, who have formed an alliance with the king-pretender. What, exactly, do you deny?”

“I deny that we let Lord and Lady Granger die. I deny that this alliance has anything to do with harming magical people.”

“That may be your intention,” Tom said coolly, “but your intentions mean nothing. If James Potter and the Weasleys go whinging to the king about Lord and Lady Granger—as if they cared anything about my wife’s family—what will _happen_ is that magical people _will be harmed.”_ He stared at them. “I have been told that they intend to give him and his Muggle nobles an enormous amount of control over wizarding affairs. Do you not understand what this will mean for magic… and especially for witches? I don’t know what the king himself thinks, but do you not _know_ why so many of his supporters back him? It’s because they don’t want his _female_ cousin on the Muggle throne. Why are you part of this? Why is _Dumbledore?”_

Longbottom took a deep breath. “Lord Thomas… we are indeed quite aware of this. We know what Potter thinks, and what most of the Weasleys think, about women. We also know what the Weasleys think of magical people. They think Muggles need protection from witches and wizards, which is arguably true—”

Tom snorted in derision. “It is _arguably_ false, as well. My own ancestors, the Celtic druids, led the Muggle chieftains of their clans well. The trouble in this island began with the filthy Romans and then the wizard Merlin, who poured poison into King Arthur’s mind against his own wizard son.”

The Longbottoms exchanged looks. “With all due respect, Lord Thomas, I do not wish to argue with you on this. As you rightly say, the issue is debatable. My point is that the Weasleys think the debate is closed in favor of _their_ view, and that this implies that magical people should be heavily restricted by Muggles. My wife and I don’t agree with _that_ at all. Neither does Dumbledore.”

“Then why are you part of it?”

“We have three reasons. One is to mitigate the Weasley influence, quite honestly. The second is that we think Stephen would provide the most political stability to the island. We are in Scotland, of course, but the Muggle monarch is a client king, so we are affected. Some of the English opposition to Stephen’s cousin is not due to her sex, but rather, because of her status as a foreigner, an outsider to their ways. And the third is that we are concerned about the long-term prospects of keeping ourselves—witches and wizards— _too_ isolated from Muggles. If their customs change, but ours don’t, eventually there will be a dangerous degree of divergence. This could result in our being targeted harshly.”

Tom shook his head. “To my thinking, that is an argument for us to influence Muggles, not the reverse. We should not meekly follow their lead if they are doing things that would harm our culture.”

A knock sounded at the Longbottoms’ door. Mistress Longbottom rose from her chair to see to it. In a moment, she was back.

“High Master Dumbledore will see you, Lord Thomas,” she said. She looked relieved.

Mayor Longbottom rose, relief etched on his face as well. Tom was sour and dissatisfied, but he could not actually detect any lies from the man. Grudgingly he made his farewells and met Dumbledore at the door.

The older wizard regarded Tom with faint disapproval. Tom wondered what that was about. Perhaps Dumbledore disapproved of him on principle.

“High Master,” he said in clipped tones, “as you know, I am here to retrieve the basilisk of Slytherin, as my lady mother agreed months ago.”

Dumbledore nodded as they began to walk the short distance to the great castle. “I received your letter.”

He said nothing else until they were inside the castle itself. They stood in the Great Hall, regarding each other wordlessly, attempting to perform Legilimency on each other.

Finally Tom spoke, and his words and tone were harsh. “I spoke with the Longbottoms while I was in their house. I am quite certain that they will report the discussion to you, so I will pose the same questions to you while we are here.”

Dumbledore waited, seemingly expecting this.

“First: Why did you not attempt to protect Lady Hermione’s parents, since you were clearly interested in protecting her cousin? Second: What are your intentions in informing the Muggle king of that attack, as my allies and I believe? And third: _Why_ have you aligned yourself with the Weasleys and James Potter?” He glared at the High Master, his eyes flashing red, though he did not know it.

Dumbledore noted that and raised his eyebrows. “I may have some questions for you as well, Lord Thomas. But… I will answer you first. I did not add wards to the late Lord Granger’s castle because I did not think it necessary. Lord Malfoy did not attack them despite knowing of them for four years. I presumed that, if he intended it at all, he would be thwarted by the protection you and your lady mother had put on their castle. Indeed, I supposed that he might _already_ have been thwarted. Once I saw that that was not the case—which unfortunately was only after the attack—I put up wards.”

Tom’s nostrils flared in irritation, but this did make sense. Unfortunately, it also implied that their wards had been inferior—or at least, that Dumbledore believed them to be so. _Malfoy and Lestrange did tear them down,_ he thought unhappily, _but could they do that to Dumbledore’s wards too? I don’t want to find out. Even if that cousin is a magic-hater, his innocent wizard child does not deserve to die. And neither does the man himself, for that matter._

“As to your second question, I have not informed the king of the attack at all.”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t play games with me, High Master. You do not have to do it yourself. Percival Weasley is a royal knight. You know this.”

“Lord Thomas, do you think I can prevent a grown man from talking to his king if he wants to?”

“I think that _if_ you disapprove of using another family’s tragedy for your own purposes, you could tell your allies that you don’t want it done. The question is, do you in fact disapprove?”

Dumbledore hedged. “I think it is not quite as simple a matter as that. The person who attacked is the High Lord of Wizards. The king should know about that. And the current Lord Granger is lord of that castle now, and _he_ had no objection to His Majesty’s being informed. Is his word to be disregarded because a cousin did not know about it?”

“Your allies omitted an interesting fact from ‘the current Lord Granger,’” Tom said. _“My_ allies later informed him that the people who so helpfully swore their support to him were wizards. He was not so keen on them after that.” He glared at Dumbledore. “And this is all beside the point. The reason why Lady Hermione’s parents were attacked is that they were _her parents._ It had nothing to do with her cousin. _She_ was the one who mattered, and your ‘Friends’ have displayed utter contempt for her.” Tom forked an eye at Dumbledore. “And _that_ leads to my third question. What do you intend to come of this alliance? You must understand what it could mean for wizards and witches—especially witches. What are you playing at?”

Dumbledore considered the questions seriously. “Lord Thomas, I will speak plainly.”

“Good. I did not come here to hear lies.”

“I do not agree with every view that James Potter and certain of the Weasleys hold,” he admitted. “However, through the knighted son, they have His Majesty’s ear, and given that fact, I would prefer to have _their_ ears than not. We made the alliance in the first place because the Muggle civil war was creating chaos in the country. Lord Malfoy would not likely have been able to do all that he has done if not for the fact that the Muggle crown is so weak and so much power has been diverted to the nobles. It is important for the country to become settled again.”

Tom scowled. This was similar to what the Longbottoms said. Either they and Dumbledore had agreed upon these claims before his visit, or this really was what they all thought.

“I do not think it is in the interest of magical people for someone like Lord Malfoy to continue to rule,” Dumbledore said. “His decision to exclude Muggle-borns from our society will eventually result in an untrained witch or wizard becoming a menace to the Muggles, by developing an Obscurus, or by an explosion of undirected magic. This would be the worst possible outcome, for _that_ to be the way that most Muggles learn of magic.”

“I agree with you about Lord Malfoy,” Tom said gruffly, “but why support the Weasleys’ plan? Why did you not seek out an alliance with my family instead?”

Dumbledore eyed him skeptically. “Lord Thomas, your lady mother did not take any serious steps to concentrate her own power until very recently.”

“She made alliances with five families—six, since the Greengrass family has an alliance with the Flints—and that happened two years ago.”

“She made those alliances for her own protection. It is only _very_ recently that your family gave any indication of _challenging_ Lord Malfoy for his position.”

“I made _my_ intentions clear years ago.”

“You were a pupil at the school.” Dumbledore held up his hand as Tom began to protest. “Did you honestly think that anyone but your own school friends considered your royal claim as something that could possibly be pursued? Yes, I knew what you were talking about with them,” he added as Tom flushed faintly. “It was not a serious effort, Lord Thomas. I recognize the fact that your actions _now_ are serious, and that you seem to have attainable goals in mind… especially with your alliance with the House of Black… but it is rather late for me to abjure the allies I have.”

“So you _would_ ally with me if you did not think it dishonorable to break an oath?”

Dumbledore demurred. “I still think it best to influence the Weasleys.”

“Frankly, High Master, you are not doing a very good job of influencing the Weasleys. They mean to give the Muggle king anything he asks for regarding our people, and he is certain to ask for heavy restrictions if they do give him such a slanted view of magic. They intend to give wizarding gold to foreign goblins, and the Weasley boys hold witches in contempt, just like the Muggles they admire. Lady Hermione overheard you in conversation with Professor McGonagall last winter.” Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes widened at that, to Tom’s pleasure. “You seem to have no control over them at all,” he said aggressively, “and based on that conversation, I will guess that it’s because you don’t believe they mean what they say about witches.”

“Arthur Weasley is a kind man, and I have never known him to express disrespect for a witch.”

“That may be, but he is apparently not the one in charge. The mother coddles her boys and speaks ill of her own sex, I’m told. When Malfoy made that law allowing wizards to put their wives under the Imperius Curse, the youngest son gloated that this was a great thing and that he wished his father would do it. This is what they think.”

“That is appalling, and I do not agree with it.”

“It is very similar to Muggle views about women,” Tom pressed, “and that is _not_ coincidental. I am sure that is where they got their views, since they admire Muggles so much and want to toady to a Muggle king at his court in exchange for power and wealth.”

“Exactly. They are the ones who have a seat at His Majesty’s table, and for that pragmatic reason, I must remain in their good graces.”

“And if I were to accomplish something comparable?”

Dumbledore regarded Tom with calculation. “We shall see, Lord Thomas. That depends greatly on _how_ you accomplish it.” He gestured out at the doors to the Great Hall. “You are here for the basilisk of Slytherin. What do you intend to do with it?”

Tom glared at the older wizard. “You just told me that you aren’t on my side. Why should I tell you my war plans?”

“I hope you don’t intend to use it against the Friends of the Founders.”

“I hope not too,” Tom said pointedly. “That is not in my plans, at least.” He gazed out at the doors and began to walk in that direction.

“I will not interfere with you. You have a way of obscuring the creature’s eyes, I trust?”

“I have cloth in my pack and a cart that I can expand to its proper size.”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment as Tom reached the doors. “One last question for you,” he said just as Tom began to push them open. “Whom did you kill, Lord Thomas?”

Tom stopped cold. He turned around to face Dumbledore, eyes wide with surprise. He had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly what Dumbledore was asking about. “What are you talking about?” he bluffed, hoping that he was wrong.

“I think you know. I know the physical signs of _certain_ old magic too. I will not pretend to condone all your choices… but you killed one of our shared enemies, I presume. That part is good news. Who was it?”

Tom blinked. It seemed that there was no hiding the facts. “Amycus Carrow,” he said. “He tried to kill Hermione. And if you really aren’t my enemy, High Master, you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he added savagely, drawing his wand. “Armand Malfoy has done that and worse. _The_ worst.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened. “Lady Hermione’s cousin did say….”

“It’s true,” Tom said. “He also used the Killing Frost spell against my mother.”

Dumbledore looked appalled. “That has never been seen in the British Isles before.”

“It certainly has not.”

Dumbledore took a deep breath. “I will stay out of your way if you will limit your vengeance to those who have harmed your family, Lord Thomas. A safe journey to you.”

Tom regarded the other wizard for a few more moments before nodding. He opened the great doors and headed for the entrance to the Chamber, his long robes flying behind him.

* * *

Tom trod the familiar path to the Chamber. All the while, it seemed burned in his brain that this had ended very badly the last time…. _But it won’t happen now,_ he reminded himself. _Dumbledore is the only other person in the castle, and he is staying well clear of this. Hermione is safe at Parselhall, and I won’t die permanently even if I catch a glimpse of its uncovered eyes._

The basilisk still slumbered. Tom hissed a command at it in Parseltongue to awaken it, looking down at the floor as it stirred.

_“Master,”_ the snake hissed at him.

_“Great Serpent,”_ Tom said, _“I have come today to get you out of this castle, and bring you to the home of descendants of your first master—my home. There is work to be done.”_

The basilisk considered this. _“As you wish.”_ It paused. _“When you summoned me before, something happened.”_

_“Yes,”_ Tom said, not wanting to think of that. _“The material I used to cover your powerful gaze was too thin, and a person saw your eyes through it. My… mate,”_ he said, deciding upon a word that he supposed the basilisk would readily understand. _“But she did not die, because she did not look directly upon them. All is well now between us.”_

_“Then I am glad. I have never had a mate, but it would be a hard thing to lose one.”_

_Yes, it would,_ Tom thought. Aloud he said, _“I will need to cover your eyes again, and the cloth is thick this time. You will be safe when I move you. I will protect you.”_

_“As you wish,”_ the basilisk repeated. _“My eyes are closed. What kind of work needs to be done?”_

Tom summoned the blindfold from his pack and magically expanded it. He cast a spell to make it hover in the air before settling upon the basilisk’s head and tying itself in a comfortable knot, holding it secure but not too tight. He smirked as he began to explain, in Parseltongue, the terrible wrong that had been committed against the descendants of Slytherin.

* * *

Tom gladly pocketed the money that he had just received from the sale. The trip to the Scottish coast had been uneventful, but he _had_ passed numerous Muggles on the road. It would have been an issue if he had not had the foresight to buy a horse to pull the cart containing the basilisk, even though he could enchant the cart to drive itself. However, horses did not do well on ships, and he did not need the horse for the short journey from the southern English coast to Parselhall. That was a very magical area anyway, and the Gaunts had frightened away most of the Muggles in that strip between the shore and the castle.

The ship—well, more of a boat, really—was already charmed for speed and safety. A magical Irish family of traders sailed between the islands, and Tom had brought more than enough coin to persuade one of them to captain the boat away from their usual trade route. He had hedged about the nature of the cargo that he was carrying, but took full responsibility for its security while on board. Indeed, the basilisk would not pose a threat to anyone while locked below deck in a magical sleep, its eyes blindfolded.

The Irish wizard was _not_ willing to come ashore himself in England, especially since it was apparent to him that the young lord who had hired him was transporting a magical beast for use in a wizarding war. However, coin was coin, and Tom gave his oath to the man that he would not speak of the transaction to any of his enemies.

He wheeled the basilisk’s cart aboard the ship.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

Hermione and Severus were not quite sure what to do. Sirius Black still had not reappeared, and Harry was growing restless with worry about his mother. The Malfoys had not responded to the letter that the Riddles had sent.

And now, Luna Lovegood and her eccentric father had come to Parselhall to swear loyalty. Hermione and Severus had accepted their oaths in Tom’s name, and Harry was very glad to see Luna, but Hermione was not at all sure that Tom would welcome this. Xenophilius Lovegood was a strange man, and he had never been admitted into the inner circle of the Friends of the Founders. He did not know any of their secrets. Indeed, the Riddles and Severus knew more about their activities than he did.

_Still,_ Hermione thought, fingering the locket around her neck tenderly, _a wand is a wand._ At least the man could duel. Even if he wasn’t good for anything else, he was good for that.

More problematic was the letter that she held in hand. It was addressed to Tom, but they had opened it after seeing the name of the sender.

 

_My lord Regent of Hangleton,_

_News has come to me of the alliance between my noble brother-in-law Lord Black and your family. In accord with the rest of my family, I was outraged and appalled at the murder of the late Lord Arcturus Black a year ago. I now express my outrage for the shocking crimes against your family and your lady’s family._

_I am pleased that my noble sister and brother-in-law support you, and that their sons—both the acknowledged and the rebel—are in alliances. The actions of Lord Malfoy and Lord Lestrange are acts of war, and I wish to fight beside my family and yours. I speak on behalf of my lady wife, Druella Rosier Black, and our loyal vassal, Caractacus Burke. We have much to share with you._

_Respectfully offered,_

_Lord Cygnus Black_

 

“Tom should see this and decide what to do about it,” Hermione said. “Burke used to be part of Malfoy’s plans. He could know quite a lot. If he really has turned his cloak….”

“Pettigrew believed that he had,” Severus said. “He said that they called Burke a traitor. The stories check out. Of course Tom will want to perform Legilimency on all of them… and I will want them to take Veritaserum.”

“Burke had better not have any _ideas_ about Lady Merope,” Hermione said.

Severus clutched his wand. “If he even _alludes_ to it, he will regret it,” he said darkly. “It might, in fact, be the last thing he regrets. I won’t tolerate it.”

“It will be hard to refuse Lord Cygnus if we want to keep Lord Black with us,” Hermione mused. “And possibly Lord Regulus too. Andromeda is Cygnus’s daughter.”

“Such are the complications of navigating noble alliances.”

She sighed. “I know. I remember… my parents….” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, which she blinked away. “I still don’t want to do this without discussing it with Tom first. I will explain to him why it’s necessary to admit them… I won’t let him refuse them… but he would probably be offended if we accepted them without consulting with him at all.” She put the letter aside.

* * *

A few days later, Tom wheeled his cart, once again containing the basilisk, onto a windswept dock. He gave a final glance back at the boat, but the captain merely nodded in acknowledgment, bowed respectfully, and quickly began to turn the helm to get the boat away from the shore.

_Coward,_ Tom thought scornfully—but so it was. He had served his purpose, anyway. Tom cast the spells that would enable the cart to roll itself and leapt aboard, smiling smugly as the salt spray soon gave way to sunny fields. He took a pear and a breadroll out of his pack and began to munch, enjoying the ride.

_I will see Hermione again,_ he thought. _It has not been that long, but I’ve missed her._ The thought of her warmed him all over once again.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

“My lord!” a house-elf exclaimed, bursting into the parlor. “My lord and my lady! He is here! Lord Master Thomas has returned.”

“Does he have something large with him?” Hermione asked, rising from her seat.

The elf nodded gravely. “He sent Fionn to tell Lord Severus and Lady Hermione that he is putting it into the vault first.”

“Yes,” Severus remembered, “she said it opened from the hillside too. He must be using that entrance instead.”

Hermione felt trepidation about the idea of the basilisk of Slytherin being nearby once again, but it was necessary, and Tom had control over it. It could not accidentally get out, and he knew to be careful now.

In a few minutes, the door swung open and Tom walked into the room toward them. He was wearing his dark green cloak and looked, to Hermione, somehow older and more mature than he had when he had left. _He is truly a man now,_ she thought with a bittersweet mix of affection and sadness. Adulthood had come with a price for them both.

He reached the far corner where they sat. His dark hair was windswept, and his face was suffused with satisfaction and pride. The combination was extremely attractive. Hermione’s heart thumped—and then he lifted her out of her seat, to her feet, and pulled her in his arms as he planted a kiss on her lips. He did not care a bit about Severus seeing.

She threaded her fingers into his messy hair as he wrapped his arms tighter around her back. “Welcome home,” she murmured next to his mouth as they drew away slowly from each other.

He gazed momentarily at the locket around her neck, a dark, pained look coming over his face at the sight of it. “I never took it off except to bathe,” she told him, her voice unexpectedly cracking.

He pulled her close and kissed her again, this one quick but intense. “I will have to ask you to take it off if you insist upon going to war beside me,” he said.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Severus,” Tom said formally in acknowledgment of his stepfather. Severus had the twins wrapped in a blanket on the two-seat sofa next to him. Tom leaned over, caressing their soft, delicate, still almost hairless heads gently. They stirred at his touch but went back to sleep.

“The basilisk is secured in the vault,” he said, taking his place in the grandest chair. Hermione sat down again. “I learned some interesting information from the Longbottoms and Dumbledore. It seems that they are not truly ‘on the side’ of the Weasleys and James Potter, at least as far as their views are concerned. It’s a strange form of pragmatism for them. They did not believe there was any serious challenge to Malfoy other than that. Now that there _is…_ well, Dumbledore, at least, said he would not get in our way. I think we can outmaneuver the Weasleys and Potter with words and stratagems.”

“That is a relief,” Hermione confessed. “Meanwhile, we now have the sworn wands of the Lovegoods… who have been quartered here.”

Tom nodded. “That does not surprise me. Has _Black_ shown his face yet?”

“Sirius Black? No, he has not,” she said as Severus scowled at the mention of that man. “But we _have_ heard from another pair of Blacks. I think you’ll find this interesting. Severus and I did not want to take any action on it until you returned.” She reached for the letter from Cygnus Black and passed it to him.

Tom read it, his brows joining together, and then set it aside. “I suppose we must admit them. I will want to examine all of them, but especially Burke. Admitting one opportunist to the castle did not work well for us. Let’s not give free rein to another—and Burke is certainly another.” He rubbed his forehead. “Has there been any word from Lucius Malfoy?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing, and Harry is increasingly upset about his mother’s captivity.”

“I will try to find out from Cygnus’s party if they know anything about Castle Draconis,” Tom said. “But Potter should accept that this will be difficult.”

“Tom, he is worried that his mother will incur an unbreakable curse from being forced to handle unicorn blood,” Hermione said. “Imagine how you would feel if that were your mother.”

Tom was silent for a moment. “I understand. She is a priority, and I will make sure Potter knows that. Still, Lestrange is still the one who handles that for now.”

“And unless your plans have changed, we intend to use the basilisk to _kill_ Lestrange soon.”

“She is a priority,” he repeated. “I do not want that to happen to her either! But there’s nothing I can do about it right now. We are doing everything we can. Perhaps Potter should learn how to transform into an animal, like his wretched father and godfather, and _sneak_ into the Malfoys’ castle! Apparently Pettigrew did that to us.” He rubbed his forehead again, feeling a headache coming on. “I wish he hadn’t been killed now,” he admitted grudgingly. “I spoke in jest, but that would actually be a good idea for someone whose Animagus form was small and unobtrusive. He could have been useful.”

Hermione could tell that he was tired and upset. A great deal of responsibility now rested on his shoulders, even if he did share it with her and with Severus. His mother was alive but in a deathly sleep, so he could not even have the closure that came from mourning, as Hermione herself was gradually acquiring. And only about a week ago, he had performed a dark and grievous act out of a sense of duty.

She wanted to comfort him physically, to take him in her arms and shower affection and intimate caresses on him, but the sun still hung in the sky—albeit low—and he had to greet their guests, preside at the dinner table in the grand dining hall for the guests’ sake, and answer Lord Cygnus’s letter. _Tonight,_ she thought.

* * *

“You were very authoritative tonight,” Hermione murmured to him as he climbed on their bed next to her. “Very lordly before all of the allies at dinner.”

He slipped off his outer robe and gazed at her. She had already removed hers and was garbed only in the loose dressing gown that she wore in the warm months. “I have to be,” he said. “They look upon me and see an untested youth otherwise.”

“No one should think that of you now.”

“Or you.”

They were in each other’s arms in the next moment, embracing tightly as they tugged on the remaining clothing. Hermione’s dressing gown found its way to the foot of the bed, though it did not fall through the drapes. In return she reached for Tom’s inner robe, pulled it off his arms, and tossed it next to her clothing. The locket dangled between her breasts. His gaze was arrested for a moment as he looked upon it. She noticed that he was staring at the object and lifted it to her lips, placing a light but solemn kiss on it. Even in that brief moment, she realized that she could sense the appreciation of the part of him in the locket. It was strange and upsetting if she thought too hard about it. Tom’s affections were not divided in the common sense of the term, so _this_ should not be happening either. It was sad and wrong for there to be a part of him that was separated from the sensations that his corporeal self experienced in moments like this.

Hermione put it out of her mind. She was quite certain that he had some sort of link with it when he touched it, and it _was_ around her neck. She felt his presence and even heard his voice in her head sometimes when she had tactile contact with it. It wasn’t isolated and alone.

With that thought, Hermione suddenly resolved to wear the locket under her robes when she followed him into battle. That way, no one would see it, but it would still be next to her.

They descended onto the mattress, Hermione’s head sinking into the pillow. Tom placed kisses down her jaw, neck, and upper chest.

She threaded her fingers into his hair as he began to minister to her. “I wanted to be the one to tend to you,” she said, feebly protesting.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. “There will be plenty of time for us to take care of each other’s needs tonight,” he said. “I missed you. I missed this.”

“I missed you too, and you looked so exhausted earlier….”

“I’m not too exhausted to offer my affections to you.” To prove his words, he placed his lips on her taut belly, kissing her while he drew circles around her nipples with his fingers. “When I see you… _this_ is why I am doing everything.” He kissed her abdomen again, then gazed up at her. “We were always meant for each other, and not just by our parents, but… by fate. By magic itself. You have always been my future, and together we hold the future of our people and our country.” He moved up her body, covering her, pressing himself against her from head to toe, their legs intertwining.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his back and her legs around his waist. “I just wish I could offer the proof that I can provide that future.”

He understood her. “You will someday, when the time is right. The fact that you’re not with child now means that you _are_ supposed to be near me in the war, just as you wanted, and _that_ means that our fates are linked. We will continue the line after we have achieved this first great goal.” He leaned in to give her a kiss as he positioned himself at her core.

Hermione did not generally believe in Divination, signs, portents, and fate to the extent that he did, but she hoped he was right. In that tender, intimate moment, she did believe him.

She gasped in pleasure, and her thoughts fled from such musings at once as they joined. They moved together, hearts racing, heated bodies growing damp with sweat, until they found their satisfaction together and collapsed as one. He exhaled heavily, his breath hot against her ear, as he slid off her, but he remained pressed closely against her all night long.

* * *

Cygnus and Druella Black did not waste any time in coming to Parselhall. They made their appearance the very next day, Caractacus Burke following obediently behind them as they approached the high seat of Parselhall to swear loyalty and allegiance. Regulus and his family were still there, and Tom had deemed it advisable to bring them out for this little ceremony. It was a good move; Cygnus and Druella were pleased to see the respect accorded to their daughter and her family.

Burke hovered behind them, taking his oath after the higher-status pair had done so. He eyed the hem of Tom’s robe, clearly wanting to raise his gaze, but not daring to.

“Burke,” Tom said, his voice cool and sharp, “you must know that I require evidence of your good faith, given your history. Look into my eyes at once.”

Burke gulped, realizing suddenly what the young lord was capable of doing and what he intended, but he obeyed without question. Tom locked eyes with him.

“Your lord implied that you have a great deal of information about Lord Malfoy and Lord Lestrange,” Tom said. “I see that this is true. Did you happen to know that Lord Malfoy has made himself deathless?”

“I suspected it,” Burke said. “I was quite certain I saw his eyes turn red once. I never encountered the item, though—and I would have known it if I had. With all due respect, your lordship, when I was a lowly shopkeeper, I handled all manner of cursed objects.”

“Naturally. That is unfortunate, but not surprising. Even Amycus Carrow did not know what the Horcrux is. We hope that Lestrange does. In any case,” he said, “I am also curious if you know anything about Malfoy or Lestrange’s castles… or the castle of _Lucius_ Malfoy.”

“Malfoy Manor is as impregnable as your lordship’s fine castle,” Burke said regretfully. “Castle Draconis, where Lord Lucius and his family live, has a secret entrance, but it has a Malfoy blood ward on it now. It was designed by your ancestor Slytherin, though—since the castle used to belong to Slytherin’s great friend—and so it may be that there is still an older blood ward that would let you in.”

“But you don’t know that?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. Now, as for Castle l’Etrange….” He racked his brains for memories. “He has a set of passwords, but he changes them frequently. At least, he did.”

Tom was disappointed. “Yes, we interrogated Carrow and acquired the most recent ones that Carrow knew. Is that it?”

Burke leaned forward conspiratorially. “Carrow might have had noble blood, but he was not a smart man,” he said. “He never knew that there was another method, which bypassed the passwords. But in fairness to him, I don’t think that even Lestrange himself knew it.”

Tom was staring fiercely into Burke’s eyes, hanging on every word. His face told Hermione that Burke was telling the truth.

“It isn’t a blood ward,” Burke said. “Lestrange’s wife—well, former wife now—was born into the noble Black family, as you know. My late aunt Belvina was also a Black, and it was through her and my uncle Herbert Burke that I learned of this family story. There was a pair of heavy wardrobes, which look to anyone like ordinary furniture, but they provide a passage between two points. You step in one—it does not even matter which one—and say the password, and the magic takes you to the other side. Lady Bellatrix took one with her when she married Lestrange.” He paused theatrically, relishing this. “As I learned when I took refuge with my noble kin, they have the second.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they're THOSE cabinets. I think there just about has to be a Black family connection in canon, since both Borgin and Draco know about them, and Borgin's late business partner was Burke, and their common thread is the Black family. Otherwise it's just too much coincidence for me to swallow.


	51. Flight and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again! This is a truly _major_ chapter for more than one reason, so I won't keep you from it!

Soon after the Cygnus Black contingent were shown to their quarters, yet another guest was announced.

“Sirius Black is here to speak with the lord of the castle,” explained the house-elf to Tom.

Tom was pleased at being designated thus, but he kept the grin off his face, since Hermione and Severus were there. “I wonder what _he_ has to say,” he murmured to her.

She stared ahead coolly, keeping her countenance. The thought crossed through her mind that, as a child, she had seen her own parents do this, and she had also seen Lady Merope speak to people with whom she was displeased, never showing anger with a potential ally. The memories pained her. “I _hope_ he has recognized how unnecessary his tantrum was.”

“What if he hasn’t? What if, instead, he wants to take his wife and stepdaughter home with him?”

Hermione sighed. “Then we have little choice but to let him. You _could_ hold him here, but that would be a terrible idea for all kinds of reasons. Politics, but also, it’s wrong to treat allies that way.”

Tom did not disagree.

When the tall doors to the great hall were pulled open again, Sirius slunk in in a very doggy way. He was slightly hunched, almost as if in defeat. The sight gave Tom hope that perhaps he was not going to take his family and go home….

“My lord,” Sirius bit off, glaring at the hem of Tom’s robe.

“Black,” Tom acknowledged.

“I… have realized some things,” Sirius said. “I learned about your plans to travel to Hogwarts… I trust that it was a successful trip….”

“It was,” Tom said. “I also learned from the Longbottoms and Dumbledore that their associations with the Weasleys are alliances of convenience. They did not know of any other options for opposing Malfoy. Of course, there is one now.”

“Then you learned more than my father did. Very well. I expect that you mean to attack Lestrange and Malfoy soon… and I want to be a part of that.”

Tom nodded. “Castle l’Etrange first. Caractacus Burke, who has been a guest of your relative Lord Cygnus, knows of a secret way into the castle.”

Sirius’s eyes gleamed in interest. “That’s… intriguing,” he said. “Well… as I said, I would like to fight with you after all.”

“And the rest of the bargain?”

Sirius scowled at the floor. “Lord T—Riddle, that is, I still am not happy about that. I did not want my children, if I had any, to live that way.”

Tom and Hermione exchanged a look. Sirius might not be the most cunning of wizards, but it was clear to them that he knew he had the upper hand. Would they really reject an extra wand in a battle? _Of course we won’t,_ Hermione thought. _And he knows that._

“Sirius,” she said, her voice calm and accommodating, “have you ever considered that your future children might _want_ to live that way? They will know that they are Blacks. They will know their uncle and aunt… unless, of course, you mean to keep them from your own brother and favorite cousin. They might develop a lot of ill-will toward you if you deny them options that the rest of the family—and allies of the family—have offered.”

“They would respect me as their father,” he grunted.

“I’m sure they would, but we are witches and wizards, and we see ‘respect’ differently to how Muggles do. It does not have to mean ‘letting parents dictate our lives’ for us. And once children are of age, they can defy their parents.” Sirius’s eyes gleamed in a spark of anger, and Hermione held her hand up for peace. “Would you keep your children from meeting ours, out of fear that they might like each other? _You_ chose to live the life you wanted. All I ask is that you leave all options available to your children.”

Sirius sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “I just don’t like it,” he finally said. “I think you are ignoring certain possibilities, like sibling rivalry. That would be especially bad if, for instance, two of my children ‘liked’ your heir. What then, Lady Riddle? _Your_ match worked out, with all due respect, but sometimes they don’t.”

Hermione, Tom, and Severus exchanged annoyed glances. “No one can foresee all possibilities,” Tom said. “You’re presenting barriers because you yourself left noble life. That is the real reason. These are excuses.”

Sirius opened his mouth to object, but Tom cut him off. “In the case you describe, Sirius, what of _our_ child? He—or she—would have a choice. It’s not like two children fighting over who gets the last sweetmeat. What you describe only becomes a problem when the person is wedded to the ‘wrong’ sibling against their wishes. Otherwise, these things work themselves out— _if_ they even arise at all.”

“We should not debate this right now,” Hermione said. “You have offered your wand for when we attack Castle l’Etrange. That is what matters right now.”

Sirius was relieved. “Yes. You will accept it, then? No conditions immediately?”

Tom glowered, his eyes momentarily flashing red. “All right, Black, no ‘conditions’—except that you hold to your oath of fighting for us.”

Black nodded. “That, I swear.”

* * *

All of the family’s allies were in the castle, and they could conspire freely. Plans were made and roles were assigned that very evening. At last, the day after Cygnus and Sirius came to Parselhall, a menacing group of witches and wizards—and one basilisk—set out.

The Lestrange castle was not far. Malfoy Manor itself was rather close to the nearly coastal location of Parselhall, and Castle l’Etrange was only a bit to the north of the Malfoy fief. Tom recognized that this proximity meant that they should expect a counterattack, since it would not take long for someone to send an owl.

Tom coaxed the basilisk onto the covered cart once again, making sure to protect his allies from its lethal gaze. He would have most of the group with him. However, a small group would Apparate to Cygnus Black’s isolated manor after Tom’s contingent set out. This group included Cygnus and Druella themselves, but also Andromeda, Regulus—and Hermione. Tom did not fully trust Caractacus Burke and did not want him in the same place as Hermione with so few people around to protect her, especially since he did not entirely trust Cygnus and Druella alone with Hermione either. He presumed that their daughter and son-in-law would prevent any betrayal. The small group would use the magically connected wardrobes to infiltrate the Lestrange castle, taking down any magical security measures present so that Tom’s large group could then storm the place.

Severus was not going at all. “I would go,” he said, “if not for the fact that someone will need to hold this castle if… the worst happens. The twins are the last of our lines in that case, Tom. I have to stay here for them. Someone always has to stay behind, and I should be it. I won’t be alone. Several of the others will stay with me.”

Tom was stricken. “The worst won’t happen,” he said. “You know, I assume, what I did—Carrow—Slytherin’s locket—”

Severus gave Tom a heavy, dark look. “Yes, I know. I trust that you are not allowing Hermione to wear it.”

“She says she wears it inside her robes.”

Severus scoffed. “Sentimentality is all very well, but she shouldn’t wear it at all in battle. Yes, Tom, I know she is not planning to duel anyone, but it could still happen. She should leave it here. And in case _she_ is under attack….”

“She has a key to our bedroom,” Tom said, “and it is charmed to bring her back to that room immediately if she says a code word or rubs the key.”

“Good. I hope, of course, that this raid goes well. And you are correct that you won’t ‘actually’ die either way. But Tom… harm could come to you anyway. If they wound you severely, you could die of that and be unable to repossess your body.”

“I know,” he said curtly. “That’s why I intend to have victory.”

Severus smiled thinly. “If Lestrange knew what was happening, he would ‘intend’ victory too. Godspeed to you.”

* * *

Tom and his force had left and were approaching Castle l’Etrange, according to a letter he sent to Parselhall by owl. It was time, then. Hermione linked hands with Andromeda Black as the small group of five people Apparated away to Cygnus Black’s manor. She took in her surroundings as they landed. Compared to Parselhall, it was small and comparatively unprotected, at least by conventional means. A single wall surrounded the place. However, Hermione could also detect the prickles of magic wards.

They entered the manor quietly, Cygnus and Druella leading them to the room where the wardrobe was stored. Cygnus drew his wand and flicked it, making the door snap open.

“The other cabinet,” Hermione ventured, gazing into the empty wardrobe. “Where do you think Lady Bellatrix kept it?”

“Most likely in her bedchamber,” said Cygnus. “She had separate quarters from Lestrange, so even if he is there, we won’t have to fight him immediately.”

Hermione took a deep breath and stepped into the wardrobe.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Alecto Carrow was extremely disgruntled. Her brother was likely dead, after having been captured by the half-blood Riddle. What wizard _wouldn’t_ exact revenge on a foe who had tortured him, attempted to murder his wife, and raided his castle? Of course Amycus was dead, Alecto thought bitterly. Lestrange had thrown him away after the Riddles and blood-traitors killed two of the attackers, not making the slightest attempt to rescue him and scornfully dismissing the idea when Alecto proposed it. Amycus had held no more value to Lestrange, the wizard to whom they had sworn fealty, or to Lord Armand Malfoy himself.

Lestrange also had not been permitted by the high lord to return to his own fief again. Whatever Lord Malfoy wanted him for—and Alecto was quite sure she knew—it was a demanding task, apparently, and that meant that Lestrange’s fief had to have a regent. According to the _English_ magical aristocracy’s inheritance traditions, she, Alecto, should have been next in line for the regency of Castle l’Etrange. Unfortunately, Lestrange did not observe those traditions. He had instead placed Selwyn in charge of the castle, and Selwyn was not even one of Lestrange’s own vassals! _He is sworn to Malfoy,_ Alecto seethed. _Malfoy obviously gave that order. He has usurped power from everyone now, even though Lestrange does not see it._

Alecto Carrow was beginning to regret ever swearing the oath to Rodolphus Lestrange. It wasn’t as if she had wanted to serve a blood-traitor and her half-blood spawn, but surely there had been better options. The oath had cost her brother his life. She had a horrible suspicion, too, that Armand Malfoy ultimately intended to force her into an unwanted marriage with Selwyn. When Amycus had been alive, she had been content to remain single, as she preferred; someday he would marry—she had thought—and continue the line.

Selwyn was currently sitting in the high seat, imagining that he was lord of this castle and not just regent, while Alecto sat in lonely splendor in the sitting room that Lady Bellatrix had used as lady of the castle. A knock sounded at the door.

_There aren’t even any house-elves here anymore,_ Alecto thought as she bade the Muggle servant enter. Lestrange had either killed them all or sent them to Malfoy Manor. It was… appropriate… for Muggles to serve wizards, of course, but at the same time, there was something vaguely wrong about their serving _in place_ of house-elves, the traditional attendants and household servants for people with magic.

The cloaked woman swept in with a silver goblet of wine. “My lady,” she murmured, presenting it to Alecto.

Alecto took the goblet and drank deeply. The wine seemed to hit her instantly. She felt her thoughts begin to garble. “What is this?” she asked. “How old is this wine?”

“It was freshly opened, my lady,” murmured the servant.

Alecto tried to focus. She gazed at the servant, blinking, as she attempted to identify the person. “What’s your name, wench?” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before….”

The woman threw her hood back. A halo of bushy brown hair ringed her young face, the features fierce and angry. “You have not,” Hermione said coldly.

_It’s the Mudblood!_ Alecto thought. She wanted to scream, but the wine… what was in the _wine—_

“That wine contained truth serum,” Hermione said. Alecto panicked for a moment, but it was too late; the potion took full effect. Hermione noticed the exact moment that Alecto’s face went slack. She flicked her wand at the door, opening it for Andromeda and Druella Black.

“Who else is here?” Hermione demanded.

“Lord Selwyn,” Alecto said dully. “Lord Malfoy placed him here instead of me.”

“Anyone else?”

“Lord Lestrange’s knights: Yaxley, Runcorn, and Rookwood.”

“That’s all?”

“All with magic, yes.”

Hermione nodded, turning to the Black ladies as they approached. She did not want to watch this.

Lady Druella spoke in a low, furious voice. “You _bitch,”_ she snarled. “How dare you sit here, where my daughter and granddaughter should sit? How dare you aid and protect rapists?” She sneered, teeth gleaming in the dim light of the sitting room. “You are so worried about blood-traitors that you have betrayed your own sex!”

Hermione stood by the door, trying her best to ignore the screams and gurgles as Lady Druella cut the other woman’s throat.

When Alecto’s dying screams faded away, the three women tramped out of the room to take on Selwyn and greet Tom’s force, which was soon to be at the castle gates.

* * *

Sir Augustus Rookwood, a knight of Rodolphus Lestrange, burst into the great hall, his eyes wide with alarm. “My lord!” he exclaimed to Selwyn.

Selwyn regarded the knight with disdain. “You presume to interrupt me thus? This had better be important.”

“It’s of the utmost importance,” Rookwood assured him. “The castle is under attack!”

Selwyn leapt to his feet, furious. “What? Have you been at the bottle, man?”

“It’s true! I heard her ladyship, Lady Alecto, shriek—and saw three cloaked people sneak out of her parlor.”

“It could be treasonous servants,” he said, drawing his wand. “But we will investigate.”

They emerged from the great hall into the main wing of the castle, wands out—but they saw no one in the hall. Selwyn turned to Rookwood, irritated.

“I really did see them,” he insisted. “Let’s check on her ladyship.”

The sitting room that Alecto liked was on the third level of the castle, far from the great hall. The wizards walked down the hallway towards the stairs, passing by a cracked door behind which five people stood silently. With their backs turned, they did not notice as the entire group left and went into the great hall to unbar the doors and take down the wards.

Hermione slipped into the shadows, her charmed key at the ready. It was unpleasant to admit, but Severus and Tom had been right. She was feeling tired. She hoped this would be a quick victory.

A pair of boyish shouts echoed through the castle. Rookwood and Selwyn had found Alecto’s body, it appeared. The Blacks exchanged anxious glances with each other and Hermione. Tom’s force was not here yet, and it was not at all clear that they could take on Selwyn and three knights without backup. They hid in a side room, collectively hoping that the castle’s occupants would look last in the wide-open great hall.

“Should we go after them?” Andromeda whispered.

Cygnus considered before shaking his head. “You cut Lady Carrow’s throat, did you not? No curses?”

“Mother did.”

“Then with any luck, they will think Muggle servants did it and won’t get reinforcements. We should wait for Lord Riddle.”

It was a torment to stay in that space, barely larger than a closet. Hermione thought repeatedly of the key. _I want to be here for this,_ she chastised herself. _We have done our part. Tom can get in now without any difficulty at all. He just needs to come soon—_

The great doors to Castle l’Etrange creaked, wood and metal against stone. That sound could not be disguised. Selwyn, Rookwood, and anyone else they had alerted would hear it. But Hermione’s heart leapt. As if reading her thoughts from a distance, Tom had come, with a basilisk and fifteen wizards and witches.

Pops of Apparition shattered the air. Selwyn and Rookwood appeared in the great hall, bewildered and shocked. With them were two other knights.

They gazed in horror as Tom cast away the covering, revealing the basilisk, his face hard and menacing. “That’s the—” Rookwood broke off, paling.

Tom hissed in Parseltongue. Although the basilisk’s eyes were still covered by a blindfold, it had its sense of smell. Its jaws opened, revealing lethal fangs. Rookwood shouted and ran for his life.

_“After him!”_ Tom shouted to the snake in Parseltongue. _“Don’t let him get away!”_ Tom was frightened that Rookwood might manage to get an owl to Lestrange and Malfoy. He was not prepared for that fight yet. If Lestrange himself showed up, then that was one thing, but they had no idea what Malfoy had used for a Horcrux.

_But if the basilisk eats him,_ Tom suddenly realized with delight, _it might not matter. A disembodied Malfoy is no threat to anyone. “Return to the great hall,”_ he told the basilisk. It stopped slithering and tried to back out of the hallway as Rookwood continued his terrified flight up the stone stairs.

“We are hopelessly outnumbered!” exclaimed Selwyn to the other knights, Runcorn and Yaxley. “We are fools to stay here!”

“But Augustus—” began Yaxley.

“We can’t help him! We must leave. To Malfoy Manor!” With three pops, the wizards vanished.

Numerous oaths, spoken in English, French, and Gaelic, pierced the air. Tom reemerged into the hall, the blindfolded basilisk behind him, and glared furiously at the spot where the three wizards had been. “Secure the castle!” he barked at his allies. “They’re going to come back with more, make no mistake about it.” His eyes were gleaming scarlet, Hermione noticed. “With any luck, we can finish this _today.”_

“Did you kill that one?” Regulus asked.

Tom shook his head. “He went upstairs. The basilisk has difficulty with that. We should watch that entrance too!” He turned to Hermione, concern in his eyes. “Hermione… you _do not_ need to fight. There are more than enough of us, plus the basilisk. _Please_ don’t risk yourself. You have already done your part.”

“Tom, they _saw_ the basilisk!” Hermione exclaimed. Her eyes were wide as she grabbed the edges of his robes. “They saw it! They will come back with a rooster. I guarantee it!”

His face turned pale. “You’re right,” he said. He turned to his allies. “Target it first. If you see one, kill it on sight.” He gazed around the great hall, scowling as he realized that there was no room large enough to hide the basilisk. “I’m going to secure it in one of the rooms.” He hissed a command at the basilisk and opened the door to the halls, the beast trailing behind him, as the others remained in the great hall to cast wards making it difficult for Malfoy, Lestrange, and others to enter.

Hermione turned to Caractacus Burke. “If you know _anything_ else about secret entrances to this castle, now would be an excellent time to tell us!”

Burke shook his head. “I don’t, my lady. I swear I don’t.”

“You know, we hold the castle,” Regulus remarked. “It may not feel like it, since we did not have to fight much at all for it, but we do. We have the advantage when they return. Let us not forget that.”

Tom emerged from the hallway quickly, entering the great hall. His sharp gaze flitted across the room. He noted the presence of three balconies that overlooked the place. “It’s safe,” he said. “I put up a ward that opens only with Parseltongue, so that wretch who fled upstairs cannot sneak in and kill my basilisk. I don’t think he is here anymore, anyway. I think he left too.” He breathed deeply, calming himself. “All right. Some of us need to stand guard outside, and kill any chickens that they may bring with them. Here is what we’ll do when they return….” He gathered his allies close and explained his plan to them.

* * *

The group of witches and wizards watching from the ramparts noticed the approach first, as expected. They studied the incoming attackers, counting and identifying them as well as they could from a distance. Fawley, who had been delegated to this task because he was small and thin, Apparated into the great hall and made his report to Tom, who sat in the high seat as a conqueror.

“They’re coming!” he said breathlessly. “Malfoy and Lestrange themselves are at the head of the group! I know it’s Malfoy; he has an unnatural eye. It’s the two of them, Crabbe, Goyle, Selwyn, the three knights we saw today, Lord Parkinson, and”—he glanced guiltily at Lady Druella—“Rosier.”

The older woman’s lips thinned. “My brother has made his choice.”

“Lord Lucius isn’t there?”

“We didn’t see him.”

Tom found that interesting, but he dismissed the thought for now. “Any roosters?”

“It looks as though Rosier is carrying one,” Fawley dutifully reported.

“Very well. You know what to do.”

Fawley Disapparated at once, returning to his post.

Tom turned to his allies. “Scatter. They will break through the wards, enter the great hall, and then….” He smiled darkly.

As Hermione hurried away with him, she tried to banish the nagging worry. This seemed far too obvious a trap to her. She hoped she was wrong.

* * *

The defenders atop the roof shot spells down at the crowd, but they were not striking anyone. The attackers had quickly determined that they were being cursed from above and put up a collective shield charm to make it very difficult for any spell to pierce except the most powerful and lethal—and those took a lot of magical energy out of the caster.

The wards that Tom’s people had put on the castle walls were now visible in the light, appearing as blurs with burned edges as they weakened under the onslaught. On the ground, Lestrange hooted in delight as he and Malfoy shot spells together that made the entire ward dissolve before their eyes.

“We have them right where we want them!” Lestrange chortled. “From what Rookwood and the others said, the half-blood brought his entire ‘army’ with him! We can crush them with one stroke!”

Beside him, Armand Malfoy was less jubilant. His magical eye, a glass globe of solid red that did not even feign resemblance to a human eye, swiveled around in the socket, as if detecting something that ordinary vision could not. As the wizards—and they were all wizards—burst through the doors and rushed into the great hall, he held back.

* * *

Hermione and Tom had retreated to the room where he had the basilisk. It was very unsettling to be this close to the monster that had Petrified her, but it was blindfolded, and Tom had it firmly under his command. She told herself that over and over as she waited.

Peering through the cracked door, Hermione watched in disbelief as almost everyone burst into the castle, suspecting nothing. There was Lestrange, lurking just behind Rosier, who held a chicken in hand. Were they really this stupid? _Evidently they are,_ she thought. She glanced around, looking for Malfoy. Where was he?

“But where are they?” said one of the attackers, mirroring Hermione’s thoughts. With that, the possibility collectively dawned on them that they had walked into a trap. Several of them exchanged uneasy glances and drew their wands nervously.

Tom gave Hermione a nod. She knew what that meant. Drawing back, she looked determinedly at the floor.

From the balconies two levels above the ground floor, Tom’s allies—including those from the rooftops, who had retreated and joined their friends when the wards went down—emerged, drew their wands, and began to send curses into the crowd below. The great doors creaked shut, trapping the invaders—all but Armand Malfoy.

Screams pierced the air, and two of the attackers fell immediately. The ones who remained standing attempted to fight back, but Tom’s people had the high ground and could easily slip back to the guard rooms that ended in the balconies on which they stood.

“Fools!” Lestrange exclaimed, furious. “You told me that he had brought a basilisk!”

“I saw it!” whined one of the knights. “I know it was that!”

“Then it’s lurking somewhere! Rosier”—he glared at the wizard holding the rooster—“you find it! Get that thing crowing _now._ Repeatedly.”

“Yes, my lord,” he blubbered as he attempted to charm the animal to crow.

In the room, Tom swore under his breath and cast a spell to block out sounds—but he needn’t have. From one of the balconies, Harry Potter cast a spell that struck the rooster dead.

“Chicken for supper?” he called out gleefully.

Rosier snarled in outrage, dropping the rooster. He sent a curse back at the balcony. Harry and his companions—Sirius, Regulus, and Druella—backed away, avoiding the spell.

A sudden urge took her. “Brother!” Druella called out. “Lay down your wand and we will let you live!”

Rosier took one look at Rodolphus Lestrange, whose face was contorted in fury that his castle was overrun, that his quick-and-easy weapon against the basilisk was gone, and that two of his people had already fallen. He thought about the Carrows, who had been thrown to the wolves— _or the snakes and dogs,_ he thought—by the man they had sworn to serve.

There was no choice. He dropped his wand and raised his hands. Coldly satisfied, Lady Druella cast a spell to petrify her brother. He dropped to the floor.

_“Try_ not to let them kill him,” she muttered. “I realize they might do it anyway.”

“Surely they have better things to do,” Harry remarked.

“Here it comes!” Sirius suddenly exclaimed. “Everyone, look down!”

The doors leading to the main hallway creaked open. From the darkness, two pairs of eyes gleamed, one pair set at the height of a man’s eyes, small and flashing red, the other much higher, large, bulbous, and yellow.

Two people were dead before they hit the ground. The rest seemed to realize at once what was happening. Pops of Disapparition rent the air as Lestrange’s backups fled.

“Wretched bastard cowards!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. He turned to the nearest wizard, Yaxley, and snarled. “Fire-Eye Jinx— _now!”_

As the basilisk approached, the two wizards kept their eyes fixed upon the ground. They raised their wands and cast the curse.

An unearthly, unnatural reptilian shriek tore through the air as the curses struck the basilisk’s eyes. It opened its jaws, flailing about, knocking its master to the ground by accident as its eyes swelled shut. The creature continued to thrash.

Tom’s breath was knocked out of him. He gasped, daring to glance up—if he looked into an eye, it wouldn’t be a permanent death—and saw what had happened, much to his dismay.

_“You can still hear and smell them!”_ he hissed at the basilisk. _“I will fix your eyes—but you must kill them before they kill you first!”_

The basilisk was still in pain, but it understood Tom’s logic. Tom propped himself up, attempting to ignore the broken rib that he was pretty sure he had suffered in the fall. The basilisk, its eyes sealed shut from the swelling and the pus that the curse caused the eyes to produce, raised its head, its jaws opening wide.

It lunged for Yaxley. He Apparated away to the other side of the great hall with a pop.

_“Get Lestrange!”_ Tom commanded.

The basilisk turned its head and struck at Lestrange. He ducked aside, narrowly missing its fangs, which dripped with lethal venom.

“Damn you!” the wizard bawled. He flicked his wand. To Tom’s dismay, a cruelly sharp dagger appeared out of nothing and shot toward the basilisk in a gleam of silver. It lodged in the creature’s left nostril, provoking another reptilian shriek. Blood trickled from the wound.

_“Kill him!”_ screamed Tom in Parseltongue.

Lestrange bared his teeth, preparing for another curse, certain that the basilisk’s injuries and pain gave him the advantage.

In the next half-second, the basilisk of Slytherin lunged forward, fangs exposed. The wizard attempted to dart aside—but did not make it in time. The fangs of the creature sank deeply into his chest. A piercing, horrified, disbelieving scream rent the air. Tom roared in delight. In the corner, Yaxley gaped in horror, then Disapparated at once.

The basilisk drew away, preparing for another strike.

Lestrange gasped, his wand clattering to the floor, blood pouring from the mortal wounds. He was quickly losing color. He spat blood onto the stone ground and glared at the basilisk in a final defiance as it lunged for him again.

From the safety of the room, Hermione winced and looked away as the basilisk swallowed the dying wizard whole. _If anyone deserves it, he did,_ she thought, _but I do not want to see it._

Clutching his throbbing ribs, Tom emerged into the great hall, where four of his enemies lay dead on the floor. He sneered at Rosier, who lay facedown. He would leave that to Lady Druella, but he would not permit the wizard to go free.

The basilisk coiled up as its master approached. Tom waved his wand, summoning the blindfold he had brought. He covered the creature’s injured eyes before casting the spells to reverse the damage that the Fire-Eye Jinx had wrought, then put the basilisk into its usual magical sleep.

_It’s common for animals to sleep after a meal,_ he thought smugly. Stepping over the bodies, he turned back to the hallway, from which Hermione and his allies were emerging.

“Malfoy is still out there!” exclaimed Fawley.

“What?” Tom said sharply. “How do you know that?”

“He didn’t come inside with the others. I saw him—he’s still there!”

Tom scowled. “Then he is a fool. Very well. I will take care of this. He won’t be happy to learn that his right-hand man is my basilisk’s dinner!”

He stormed toward the great doors, casting a spell to cause them to open quickly. They scraped against the stone floor, hinges creaking, and finally banged against the walls loudly. Keeping his wand out, Tom glanced quickly from left to right, looking for the old wizard.

“At last we meet face-to-face again,” drawled an old, thin, but deathly cold voice. Tom whipped his head around.

Garbed in his signature white, Armand Malfoy emerged from a side room next to the doors. Tom was now outside the keep while Malfoy stood between him and his allies.

Tom noted this and snorted in contempt. “You are surrounded, old man.”

Malfoy peered back at him, the red glass orb that served as an eye swiveling. The other, natural eye gleamed scarlet too. “Then I have the audience I desired,” he replied.

Tom did not hesitate. He cast a violent, murderous curse in Malfoy’s direction—but the wizard dodged it. It struck a banner hanging inside the castle, setting it aflame. Tom’s people rushed to extinguish the fire.

The effort to cast the spell had exhausted Tom’s magical reserve. His chest was throbbing now from the broken rib. He bent slightly, grimacing in pain. Malfoy smirked and flicked his wand at Tom.

Hermione shouted in dismay as a jet of green light struck him. His eyes widened in shock, and he toppled to the ground.

“No!” exclaimed several voices from inside the castle, Harry’s and Sirius’s among them. Hermione closed her eyes. Tom would be all right—more or less—but now every one of their allies would know his secret.

“That was embarrassingly simple,” Malfoy chortled to the group, taking an ironic bow. “I am so sorry to spoil your ill-gotten ‘victory.’” He smirked at Hermione. “You’d best hurry back to your Muggle cousin now, poor Mudblood widow. You have no place among us.”

“No, _you_ have no place among _us!”_ shouted Harry, his voice thick. Hermione was surprised. She had not known he felt anything for Tom at all….

Tom was stirring. Hermione noticed his movement first, and then several of the others gasped, raising their hands to cover their open mouths.

Tom heaved his breath and got to his feet, wobbling, his eyes flashing bright red. He glared at Malfoy. “Is that all you have, usurper?” he choked out, clutching his chest.

Malfoy gaped at Tom with his one natural eye, taking in the truth. He glanced warily at the occupied castle and the many faces, variously jubilant, grimly satisfied, and enraged.

“I must admit, you have genuinely impressed me, half-blood,” Malfoy bit out, though it plainly infuriated him to have to speak the words. “You are smarter than I thought. Perhaps you should take on a new title,” he mocked. “‘Flight from death,’ perhaps… though it is more elegant in my tongue.”

“I don’t want to hear anything in your foul tongue!” Tom snarled. He attempted to catch Malfoy’s eye so that he could perform Legilimency. Malfoy understood exactly what he was attempting and made a point of evading Tom’s gaze.

“What do you _want?”_ Tom growled.

“You are not going to attempt to kill me?”

“It’s pointless. I know what you have done, you filthy accursed robber lord.” Hate dripped from his words. “You will have to find another lackey now, though.”

Malfoy sneered back. “Lestrange had all but outlived his usefulness, fool that he was. I am better off keeping my own counsel anyway.”

“Is that what you think?” Tom said. His chest was throbbing in pain. He really needed to heal it… but if he could keep Malfoy talking for long enough, perhaps he could regenerate his magical power enough to cast something very violent, something that would destroy Malfoy’s body….

Malfoy was enjoying the young wizard’s suffering. “I have had one truly useful confidant in my life, Riddle.”

“Oh?” Tom snarled. “Who? Not your late wife, of course. I know what your kind think of witches. Not Lord Abraxas, and apparently not Lestrange—”

“Salazar Slytherin.”

Tom’s mouth fell open, but he instantly shut it. His eyes flashed red. “You _liar,”_ he roared, though it hurt his lungs to do it. “How _dare_ you!”

“Oh no, it is quite true,” said Malfoy, grinning maliciously. “You have heard of how Castle Draconis was stormed eighty years ago? You know that Slytherin designed it, correct?”

Tom’s breath hitched in his chest. His eyes widened. “No—”

Malfoy was enjoying this. _“Yes,”_ he said repressively. “Slytherin vanished from the British Isles after his fight with the other Founders of Hogwarts. No one from his native land knew where he went… but _I_ do.”

_“No.”_ Tom seemed to realize what Malfoy was going to say before he said it.

“How do you think I _learned_ of the secret entrance to Gryffindor’s castle? Slytherin came to Normandy because we had the proper attitudes about Mudbloods and half-bloods.”

_“No!”_ Tom crumpled to the ground, falling on his knees, unable to support his weight.

Inside the castle, everyone gasped. Harry covered his mouth with his hand. Hermione cried out.

_“Salazar Slytherin_ was my one true friend and ally,” Malfoy said, his one eye gleaming. “Slytherin urged us to travel to Britain with the Muggle William and told us exactly how to take control of this barbarous population. Think on that as you sit in this castle, half-blood!” He turned, and in a whirl of white robes, Disapparated.

* * *

Tom trudged inside the castle, his gaze cast miserably at the ground. His chest was throbbing in pain and his breaths were short. No one knew quite what to say. What had been a joyous, triumphant victory free of any casualties on their side was now dreadfully hollow.

Hermione approached him first. She drew her wand and cast a general healing spell at his chest as she helped him to the Lestrange high seat.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. “It doesn’t matter, Tom. It doesn’t affect who _you_ are and what _we_ are doing.”

He gazed at her, a deep, wretched sorrow etched in his face. “Hermione,” he said quietly, “I thought that he was a Seer.” He sighed heavily, his breath a jagged shudder. “I thought he put the basilisk into Hogwarts to protect it from Norman invaders. I _believed_ that.”

“Tom, it _doesn’t matter.”_

“A part of my soul is encased in his last artifact,” Tom said, his face twisting.

Hermione did not like this turn of his thoughts one bit. “It’s _yours,”_ she said sharply. “Don’t think of it as his! It belongs to your family. He didn’t even bring it with him! He had no value for it in the end. It is yours, and you have made it so in the most profound way possible.”

Tom sighed again, rubbing his forehead. He noticed that his friends and allies were still milling around, talking in low voices to one another, uneasy and unsure of what to say. He needed to get control of himself, he realized. He had to act the lord that he was, perhaps especially in times like this.

He cleared his throat. “My friends,” he called out in the most authoritative tone he could muster. It was sufficient; every head turned in his direction. Hermione stood beside him, loyal and proud, one hand on his left forearm. He took strength from it, and his voice was stronger when he spoke again. “We have achieved a great victory today. Rodolphus Lestrange is dead, and the enemy is scattered. We hold Castle l’Etrange and have access to any secrets it might hold. It was my intention to learn from him what Malfoy has used to secure his deathlessness—for deathless he is—but unfortunately that was not possible, so we hope that this information can be found within the castle.” He took another deep breath, briefly locking his gaze with Hermione’s in an intense look. “As for the claims that Malfoy made, they will not discourage us. Whatever may have happened in the past, we are forging a new future.”


	52. Weakness in the Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always!
> 
>  **Warning:** This is an extremely dark and violent chapter with multiple character deaths.

Hermione was impressed with how quickly Tom soldiered ahead with the business of settling affairs at Castle l’Etrange. Armand Malfoy’s shocking revelation about his ancestor had shaken and hurt him; that she could tell, but to his credit, he was keeping the worst reactions to himself. He was intimately aware of how any additional show of paralysis or distraction about Malfoy’s revelation would harm his standing with the people he led.

He took Hermione, Regulus, and Andromeda aside privately late that afternoon, after the group had explored the castle thoroughly. “The stories about the younger brother, Rabastan, are true,” he said. “He is in an isolated manor house. I do not know if it’s curse damage or a disease, but he is mad and witless, according to documents here. He’s unfit to rule, but someone must assume authority over this castle,” he said quietly. “Lady Bellatrix will not be that person. She attempted to murder Hermione in her very first year at Hogwarts, and she created a situation that led to my being tortured by Amycus Carrow for something I had not done.”

Hermione was pleased that Tom now blamed Bellatrix for that. Ultimately, the fault lay with the rapist vassal of Lestrange, of course, but Bellatrix could have hidden the body after she had exacted justice. Instead she had allowed it to be found, with the intent of having others blamed for the killing.

Regulus understood what Tom was implying. “You want my family to produce the sons of Dirk Cresswell and present them as Lestranges by blood.”

Tom nodded. “I am sure that your guess about his parentage is correct and he was another son of Rodolphus Lestrange’s father.”

Andromeda spoke up, frowning. “Lord Thomas, there are many who will not accept such a claim, with no proof to support it. Among them is _my niece,_ Lady Adelaide.” She gave him a hard look.

Tom winced; he had forgotten that she was Adelaide’s aunt.

Hermione spoke in agreement. “We claim to support the rights of witches,” she said. “I think she should be named the heir as well.”

“I understand why you say so,” Tom said, looking pained, “but I don’t think she can be trusted. She has never supported us, even at Hogwarts. It’s important to have a loyal ally in a position like this, and her history disqualifies her from that.”

They sat in thought. Finally Regulus spoke up, “She should still be offered it. Let’s offer her a betrothal to the older Cresswell as well. _He_ would be the ally you want, and her marriage to him would quiet any objections that the inheritance of this fief was a fraud.”

“Would she accede to it? Would _he,_ for that matter?” Tom asked. “What do they know of their background? Did anyone in your family ever tell them?”

“My lord father finally did,” Regulus said. “They were nervous but excited to avenge their father, and the younger was glad to support the elder’s claim. As for Lady Adelaide, I think she’d take the offer and leave administration to him. From what I know of her, her chief goal in life has been a noble marriage, and… recent events… have likely been devastating to her.”

Tom considered that. “It would be another overture to Lucius Malfoy, who can’t possibly like having her—or her mother—in his castle with the betrothal to Draco off. All right. We will do that.”

That night, he and Hermione wrote and sent the letter to the Malfoys of Godric’s Hollow.

* * *

After sending the letter to Godric’s Hollow, Tom retreated to a private room in the Lestrange castle. Hermione wanted to go to him, but he shook his head and closed the door. It hurt… but she consoled herself that Tom needed some time alone to take in what he had heard that day. So much of his identity was invested in being the descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and he _had_ convinced himself that Slytherin’s work had been to protect Hogwarts from the incoming wave of Normans. This must be quite a shock to him.

She located the library and took a seat in an isolated corner. The Lestrange family had a grand library, but it was smaller than the one at Parselhall. She picked up a book but found it difficult to concentrate on reading, so she brought out the extra item that she had brought with her to this castle.

Hermione had not thought much about the Athame of Morgana since Tom had given it to her in December. It had meant a lot to him to give up such an artifact, certainly, but _she_ had never harbored any such dreams as he had—and ultimately, his renewed confidence and affection was the greater gift. Then, too, learning almost immediately that the woman who had placed it in that cave had turned into a tyrant had seemed to render the entire legend irrelevant. Still, there was something about the story that troubled her.

 _Why would Ceridwyn leave this in that cave?_ Hermione mused, turning it over in her hands, a contemplative frown on her face. _The Gaunt legends suggest that either she or her mother was a Seer and made a prophecy that the one who recovered it would restore the line—but that does not make sense. The artifact itself must hold some virtue for it to have any relevance or influence in that. Otherwise, the prophecy—if there was one—would only become true because the person who retrieved it was determined to restore the line, and succeeded. There is nothing about this athame that I have been able to detect that suggests it holds a “strength to rule” or even “strength to triumph” spell._

 _And in any case, the magic of the cave itself was there before Ceridwyn placed the athame there at all. What I think must have happened is that she put it in a site that was known as a place of purification, a place where heroes, kings, and druids went ritually, and the legend of the cave mixed with whatever was the original story about the athame._ Hermione sighed; her thoughts were back at their starting point. _Why_ had the dispossessed princess placed her grandmother’s last artifact in such a remote spot, so _very_ hard to access? What was this object’s real virtue or significance?

She pointed her wand at the athame, casting a series of diagnostic spells. Most of them revealed nothing. _This blade is magically powerful,_ Hermione thought with a frown. _There is something extremely strong upon it. I am just not using the right spell to identify it._

She closed her eyes, running a single finger down the smooth surface. Suddenly, instinctively, a thought occurred to her—a dark thought, but an exciting one. She knew it was correct even before the spell she cast to test it caused the knife to glow a dark, menacing red.

 _This blade is cursed,_ Hermione realized, _but it is a curse that doesn’t harm people. This blade has magical powers, but the curse thwarts and negates them. No one can use its magic. For now, it is just a blade, truly—but why? Where did this curse come from, and how can it be broken?_

Hermione realized that she would not have an answer to this tonight. She sheathed the athame and put it back in her pack.

* * *

Tom brooded alone. He would have welcomed Hermione’s loving support in any other situation, but not for this.

 _If I had known,_ he thought bitterly, _I never would have used the locket. It would have been some other object. Perhaps an object associated with the Gaunts… but no, the later Gaunts were just as bad. Slytherin must have gone to Normandy, told Malfoy everything he knew, and arranged a bargain with him to allow his son and daughter to remain “wed” to each other in exchange for his help. He did not begin that tradition, but he certainly did not prevent the family from continuing it._

_It meant everything to me to be a wizard, a Gaunt, and an heir of Slytherin. Now I know that the later Gaunts were glad to pay homage to Armand Malfoy, many of the earlier ones were menaces, and Slytherin conspired with Malfoy out of spite against his former friends._

_I have literally housed part of my soul, the very essence of myself, in an object that used to belong to someone who invited Malfoy himself to rule here. I have done that, and there is no way to withdraw it and send it to some other artifact. Hermione is right. I must make the locket “mine” in my own mind now. I cannot stand it otherwise._

_My Slytherin blood is tainted with treason against my people. My Gaunt blood is tainted with incest and tyranny. I would rather have no Muggle blood at all. Who am I now?_

Tom sighed heavily, leaning against the back of the chair on which he sat.

 _Malfoy will pay,_ he suddenly decided. _Malfoy did not have to tell me that. It served no purpose. He did it to upset me after what was, in truth, a great victory for me. It was yet another act of spite. It was true—that I will grant—but it was an act of bad faith, just like his filthy name in his filthy tongue._

At length Tom considered just how he would make Malfoy pay. Ultimately, of course, his plan was for Malfoy to die by Tom’s hand. _Or Hermione’s,_ he thought. _He has wronged her too._ He liked the poetic justice of that, but he still wanted to make Malfoy suffer for his arrogance before his death.

Suddenly, with a dark, grim clarity, Tom decided what he was going to do. _Mother would hate the idea of it,_ he thought, _but Mother is in a cursed sleep because of Malfoy. I am the Regent of Hangleton._

He rose from his chair and opened the door, his handsome face impassive, as he strode down the hall of Castle l’Etrange. He saw Hermione in the hall, emerging from the Lestrange family library, a look of concentration on her face.

“Tom,” she said, smiling compassionately at the sight of him. “Are you all right?”

He paused as he met her, leaning over to kiss her. “I’m fine, my love,” he murmured, caressing her. “I will be back… later.”

She drew away, suddenly concerned. _“Are_ you all right, Tom?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am. I just need to do one last thing before bed. I hate asking you to spend the night here, all things considered, but we have to claim this place by conquest….”

“Of course we do,” she agreed. “I understand about things like that, Tom.” Suddenly, she hugged him again. He was startled but embraced her, her warmth spreading to his body from the closeness. “I am so happy about doing something good for Adelaide,” she whispered. “Even though she was unkind to me for no reason, I feel sorry for her. She was _raped_ and _impregnated_ by the rapist, and then her own father sided against her and her mother. She has lost so much… she has had _two_ betrothals end, and it must be very difficult for a young woman who expected to make her way in the world by marriage.”

Tom was less enthusiastic about being kind to a past adversary, but he supposed that this had always been a difference between him and Hermione. _It is not even a bad thing, necessarily,_ he reflected. _It is what enabled her to forgive me for everything I did to her._ He hugged her back. “I just hope that she—and her mother—cooperate and accede to our offer. _And_ that this half-blood Lestrange-by-blood, this Cresswell, or whatever his surname is now, does the same.”

“I’m sure they will. It is extremely generous, really.”

 _That does not guarantee anything,_ Tom thought, but he did not say it. He squeezed Hermione tightly once more, then released her with a smile. She continued on the way to the bedroom level of the castle.

Tom, however, turned and headed for the great hall. Once inside, he Disapparated.

* * *

In the humid summer night air, he gazed around the site. The gates of Malfoy Manor loomed in the distance, impenetrable except by one with Malfoy blood, but he was not interested in that place. Now that he had come to it at last, he regarded the castle with scorn. Parselhall was larger than _that—_ though of course, the original structure that became Parselhall had been built much earlier.

Tom turned aside, pulled his cloak close, and kept his wand in hand as he approached Malfoy’s fields on the outskirts of the village. Malfoy, it appeared, did not feed his immediate subjects from these crops. The ramshackle huts and shacks that housed Malfoy’s enserfed field workers—which looked to be the overwhelming majority of Muggles here—had small gardens of their own. The fields that the Muggles tended during the day had magically warded walls surrounding them. There was enough behind those walls for Malfoy’s household and some of the vassals that lived very close, but little more. That observation brought some relief to Tom as he contemplated his plan.

 _This is war,_ he told himself as he gazed around, looking for a witch or wizard sworn to Malfoy. _People have done things like this in war from time immemorial._

A person appeared from around a corner of the walls. “Who are you and what are you doing?” snarled a wizard’s voice as he stormed toward Tom. “There is a curfew tonight, and I am enforcing it! His lordship will have your head—”

Tom did not bother to bandy words. This was Selwyn; he recognized the voice now, and Selwyn would do perfectly for Tom’s purposes. He slashed his wand through the air, felling the wizard with a stupefying spell.

Tom approached Selwyn’s supine form and crouched next to him. He threw off the hood of his cloak, revealing his features to the startled—and now frightened—man. “I don’t observe Malfoy’s _curfews,”_ he hissed in a voice barely above a whisper. “I am here for a different reason.” He gazed at the walls a few feet away, then stared intensely at Selwyn’s wide eyes. “You can get inside there,” he observed. “You can, and that is what you are going to do. You will be quite useful.”

Selwyn was helpless as Tom dragged him to the gates, cut his palm open—perhaps unnecessarily bloodily, Tom thought as he pressed the other man’s hand to the gate to open it, but this was only the beginning. He threw Selwyn onto the ground and closed the gate behind him. The verdant fields and orchard of Armand Malfoy stretched out, protected by stone walls. Inside, four magical torches blazed away at each corner, guarding the almost-ripe crops. _So close to harvest,_ Tom thought smugly.

“You are named Selwyn,” he murmured in a low voice to the terrified wizard. “A fine old Saxon name. Your family used to sit on the Wizengamot with mine… with the Blacks… with others. And yet you chose to serve the usurper, who _dissolved_ the Wizengamot rather than joining it like all the others who migrated to England over the centuries.”

Selwyn did not respond. He could not, being frozen by Tom’s spell.

“You are a blood-traitor,” Tom snarled fiercely. “Your ‘lord’ believes that that word belongs to him, but it does _not._ You have betrayed your kin and your ancestors. For that….” Tom smiled malevolently, drawing a cursed knife from his belt. On the ground, Selwyn’s eyes opened even wider. He tried to cry out, but he could not speak.

“About a year and a half ago, Malfoy considered seizing my mother’s lands by a punitive tax,” Tom hissed. “When I learned of it, _I_ considered a ritual to lower their value. Do you know what it is, Selwyn? Destroying enemies’ crops in war is a long… tradition…” he said darkly, “and not even unique to wizards. But while Muggles often use fire, that is temporary, and can even enrich the soil so that the crops grow again the next year stronger than before. _Wizards,_ however—my ancestors—had a way of preventing that.” He smiled, white teeth gleaming sinisterly in the night air. “Malfoy may drink the blood of unicorns, but he also has to eat. Whatever will he think when he learns that his food has been blighted and destroyed so close to harvest—by an ancient druidic ritual fueled by blood?”

Finished with his little speech, Tom glared fiercely at his victim as he uttered the ritual words in Gaelic. _“With the life’s blood of my enemy, I curse his land. I curse the food that grows upon it. May the cycle be interrupted, may the eternal circle break, and may it not renew again until I so will it.”_

A sliver of a crescent moon hung in the sky. In the faint moonlight, his face was angular, pale, and stark. His pupils gleamed scarlet as he brought down the knife.

Selwyn was unable to scream. Tom ignored the impotent thrashing and gazed out at the crops. A fell, clammy breeze that stank of death rippled across the enclosure. In a matter of seconds, leaves shriveled black; stalks decayed and crumbled; fruits, pods, and gourds rotted and turned to slimy, ill-smelling liquid.

The life’s blood of one wizard was more powerful than that of one Muggle. In the ancient days, according to the books Tom had read, the druids had typically used Muggle sacrificial victims in their wartime rituals to defeat rival clans. That weakened the impact and decreased the amount of land that would be affected. As it was, this enclosure was just small enough that the blood of one wizard was enough to blacken everything in it.

Tom gazed down at Selwyn, who lay dead in a pool of his own blood—though that was rapidly soaking into the ground. In the distance, a dead branch snapped off a fruit tree and crashed to the ground through the remains of decayed grass. Tom rose to his feet, staring across the enclosure at his handiwork. He felt a disconcerting mix of emotions. He had just performed an ancient war ritual of the people he so honored—the _one_ aspect of his ancestry that had not been tainted in some way by later hypocrisy or blood-treason—but at the same time, he did not feel proud of this, and he could not understand why. Selwyn had attacked his home; he deserved death, and Malfoy definitely deserved to starve….

 _Would he not just take the food his Muggle subjects grew for their families—_ Tom banished that thought. Even if the Muggle serfs did suffer a bit, they would have a better life very soon, once Malfoy was dead.

He raised his wand and took a deep breath as he cast a new spell. Another breeze rippled across the remnants of Malfoy’s crops. A green glow appeared above the dead plants. Tom managed a grim smile. Anyone looking down upon this place from a higher vantage point would clearly see the circular emblem of House Riddle burned into the dead field, glowing green. When Malfoy saw this, he would have no doubt of who had done it.

Tom gave it one last look, then Disapparated.

* * *

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy entered the secret, magically secured wing of the castle where Bellatrix and Adelaide were staying. Lucius held in hand a letter that he had just received from the Regent of Hangleton, which had kindled a hope in his heart that had been absent for a long time. Bellatrix would surely like the news that her estranged former husband was dead and could threaten her and her daughter no longer. And the offer that the Riddle-Black coalition had presented was quite generous. Narcissa agreed with him about that. It certainly would not have been acceptable for their dear Draco to wed the offspring of a half-blood bastard, but Adelaide had been destined for spinsterhood after losing two betrothals due to scandal. Even in the best-case scenario for Lucius and Narcissa—the scenario in which the winner of the war left them be—they knew that she did not have a bright future. This changed things.

Bellatrix and her daughter glared at their hosts as they entered the private room. Narcissa scowled at her sister in return. She loved her sister, but to tell the truth, she was sick of her. The sooner Bellatrix was out of this castle, the better for all concerned.

“Sister-in-law,” Lucius began, “we have received important news tonight. It is very good news, for a change.”

Bellatrix attempted to force the sneer off her face. “Indeed? What is it, then?”

“Castle l’Etrange has fallen, and Lord Rodolphus is dead. Your kin the Blacks control it for now, and they have made a very generous offer to you—and especially your daughter.” He gave a courteous nod to Adelaide, who—in contrast with her mother’s bitter cynicism—actually looked up hopefully.

“My ‘kin the Blacks,’” Bellatrix repeated skeptically. She eyed Lucius. “Who sent that letter? That does not look like Andromeda’s hand.”

Lucius grimaced. “This is from the Regent of Hangleton—”

Bellatrix snarled. “The half-blood! I knew it! _He_ controls my castle, doesn’t he? Not the Blacks at all! It’s Riddle and the Mudblood!”

Narcissa glared at her. “They have an alliance with our family, Bella! You know that! They state that they made this agreement on the recommendation of Lord Regulus—and, yes, Andromeda. They have shown immense respect for our family, because the agreement they offer is that Adelaide will inherit the fief—”

Adelaide gasped. “Really, Aunt Narcissa?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is a stipulation, of course, but it is not a hardship. You may know—I am certain that your mother does—that you have cousins on your late father’s side, because your grandfather Lestrange sired a half-blood bastard in addition to your father and your mad uncle. He is dead now, but the stipulation is that you would have to wed the elder of his two sons.”

Bellatrix snarled again, spittle flying from her mouth. “Those half-blood wretches! I knew it! The blood-traitors in our family have been hiding them all along to undermine her, Narcissa, and now they make their move, as I feared! How can you support this? How can you send your own flesh and blood, a pureblood witch, to the bed of a half-blood bastard’s spawn—”

Narcissa was out of patience. “Because no one else will touch her!” she roared. Adelaide shrank back in shame. “I am sorry, niece,” Narcissa said in a slightly kinder tone, “but you know it better than any of us. It is an injustice, but so it is.”

“This man—this wizard,” Adelaide said quickly, “was his mother a witch? Who is he?”

“His mother was from Hogsmeade, so, yes, she was a witch,” Narcissa said.

“Then our children would be pureblood. Mother”—she reached imploringly for Bellatrix—“this is more than fair. I would have preferred my husband to have purer blood himself, but… at least he would be of _my_ blood. Please—I don’t want to live like this for the rest of my life, on relatives’ charity!”

Bellatrix glared at her daughter. “You do not even know his name. You know nothing about him. You _think_ you like this idea because you are desperate. You deserve so much more than to be on the leash of a half-blood and a Mudblood, bound to a stranger whose blood is not as pure as yours! You never would have consented to this before we came here, and you know it. Life in hiding has affected your thinking.” She rose from her seat and stared down Narcissa and Lucius. “What else does Riddle say?”

“That is all,” Lucius said coldly, rolling up the parchment. “Rodolphus was killed by the basilisk of Salazar Slytherin, which Riddle now has in his possession, and they—in consultation with Lord Regulus—have made this offer to your daughter. I advise you to think better of it, sister. You attempted to kill Riddle’s wife. They would have had every right to order your death and declare your progeny attainted.”

“Whose _side_ are you on?” Bellatrix exclaimed.

“I am on our family’s side,” Lucius shot back, “which is why I urge you to calm yourself and think about this in a reasonable light.” He gazed quickly at Adelaide, then back at Bellatrix. “Your daughter approves of it, and she would be affected much more than you.”

“She has lost _two_ betrothals, has had to leave Hogwarts to run from her own despicable father, and has been _hiding_ in this castle, unable to step outside and see the sunlight except from that tiny window!” Bellatrix roared, pointing at said window. “She would approve of anything! I will not consent to an arrangement made under duress, Lucius, and that is what this is.”

Adelaide flushed deep red, humiliated at being spoken of in this way to her face.

“Then she will be cut out entirely!” Lucius exclaimed. “They’ll give Castle l’Etrange to the bastard line outright. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Bellatrix said coldly, “it is not.”

“Then think better of this offer,” Narcissa snapped. “I have nothing more to say right now. Think about what you have heard, Bella, and think about it _realistically.”_ She glanced quickly at her niece. “I take my leave.”

With that, she and Lucius left the room.

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Tom cracked open the door to the bedchamber that Hermione had chosen. He glanced quickly at himself in the mirror and was shocked at how haggard his face was. The light in his pupils was still resolutely scarlet, too. Hermione gazed at him in surprise.

“Tom—what is the matter?”

Tom sat down on the mattress, breathing heavily. He stared at the rug on the floor, which was offendingly devoid of any designs that he could identify as Celtic or even Old English. He turned to Hermione. “Selwyn is dead,” he said, surprised at how cold his voice sounded. He attempted to put some warmth into his words as he spoke to her. “I went to the village of Malfoy Manor, and he was there.”

“Tom! Why in God’s name—”

“I killed Malfoy’s crops,” Tom said roughly. He turned his wand over in his hands, glaring fiercely at the rug. “I used Selwyn as the blood sacrifice and performed that Celtic ritual—if you remember?”

“Tom!” Hermione was clearly appalled.

“I don’t regret it,” he said, his words cold. “I would do it again. We now have one less enemy to defeat, and Malfoy has lost his entire harvest.”

“Tom,” Hermione said once again, “why did you do this?” She reached for him and pulled him to face her. Her warm brown eyes pleaded. “Why? What purpose in war does this serve? He will just take food from someone else. Was it vengeance for what he told you?”

“And what if it was?” he rejoined harshly. “Even if he does take food from others, he lost _his_ harvest due to a Celtic death magic ritual. It’s what he deserves, considering how much contempt he has for my blood.”

 _Contempt that, even now, you return for his blood._ Hermione gazed at him, recoiling ever so slightly. “Tom, this is not a noble act.”

“Vengeance runs in the blood of this country,” he retorted. “I would do it again.”

She pulled away entirely, folding her arms over her chest. “Go to bed, Tom,” she said sharply. “There is nothing to be done about it tonight, but you need to go to sleep.”

“You’re just angry with me.”

“I am,” she admitted, “but I am also worried for you.” She regarded him with a serious gaze. “I studied the Athame of Morgana this evening and thought about your ancestor who placed it in that cave. She drank of the potion before she placed it there; you drank of it before you took the athame out. She mastered a fierce, deadly magical creature; so did you. She created a Horcrux to safeguard her life until she could have children; so did you.” Tom looked away from Hermione. She reached for Tom’s chin and turned his head to face hers. “She nursed grudges, gave in to pointless vengeance and cruelty, and became a tyrant.”

Tom turned away once again, breathing heavily. Neither of them said anything for several seconds until he spoke. “But I won’t.”

“Please don’t. Please. I love you. I can’t bear the thought of that happening.”

He kicked off his shoes and leaned back on the bed, not saying a word. He thought about what she had said. Yes, it was important not to let himself be destroyed by the necessities of war—but he was not close to that. He was glad that she cared so much about him, but her thoughts must have turned to this because of what she had been doing this evening. He wondered what, if anything, she had discovered from her examination of the athame—but tiredness was claiming him. He would ask her another time.

* * *

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

With a swish of her wand, Bellatrix directed all the possessions that she had brought with her to Lucius’s castle into her pack. There was not much. She had had to flee Castle l’Etrange with little more than the clothes on her back. Adelaide had a bit more, since she had left Hogwarts with some time to prepare.

She was still pouting and sullen, Bellatrix observed. It was annoying, but it was to be expected. Adelaide’s mind had been warped by everything that had happened to her, obviously. Under normal circumstances, it was impossible that Adelaide Lestrange, pureblood and noble, would consent to such an insulting arrangement presented by the two people she had hated in school. For her own good, Bellatrix had to prevent her dear daughter from making a decision that Bella was certain she would regret for the rest of her life.

 _So the Riddles and my blood-traitor sister and brother-in-law do not mind letting her be lady of the castle,_ Bellatrix thought. _If that’s the case, then they can just accept her without a degrading marriage. She can have her inheritance without having to call an inferior her “lord.”_

“We leave now,” Bellatrix said to Adelaide. She held out a hand to her; Adelaide had not yet learned how to Apparate.

Scowling, Adelaide grasped her mother’s bony hand. The two disappeared with a pop.

They landed at the doorstep of a stone house that was familiar to Adelaide, but only vaguely. It took a moment for her to remember where this was.

“Mother,” she said nervously, “what are we doing here? This is where Uncle Rabastan and his elf live….”

Bellatrix gave her a dark, pointed glance. “You should be able to guess, daughter.”

Another moment passed, and then Adelaide’s eyes widened with horror. “Mother!” she exclaimed. “How could you—”

“Do you know why he is in this condition in the first place?” she replied repressively. “Your father did it to him—his own brother.”

“I had heard the rumor…” she muttered. “I didn’t think it was _true….”_

“Did you still think it was untrue, after your vile father tried to harm us for the death of that scum who raped you?” Bellatrix said, no mercy in her words. Adelaide shrank away, eyes fluttering shut, not wanting to be reminded of that. “I am giving poor Rabastan a merciful death, after all. I will use the Killing Curse. It is a kindness, if you look at it the right way—and my daughter, it is for you. I will not suffer any rivals for your rights, even one who is witless. If the Riddles are willing to place a half-blood bastard line on the high seat of House Lestrange, who is to say they would not place an idiot there?”

“He’s helpless,” she murmured, looking down at the ground.

“Which is why I am being merciful. But if you do not want to see it, you may remain near the door. _Inside.”_

Adelaide shuddered as they entered her uncle’s manor house. She watched as her mother, cloaked in black like an angel of the apocalypse, stalked upstairs to Rabastan’s room.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

Armand Malfoy could scarcely believe his eyes. His crops, his precious field, lay dead and rotting. The body of Selwyn lay on the ground, drained of blood. The heraldic symbol of the rebellious Riddle family was scorched into the field, glowing in green outline, a magical insult that Malfoy—despite his best efforts—could not eliminate.

What this was, Malfoy did not specifically know, but he could guess well enough. Riddle had performed some kind of filthy barbarian ritual on his field and orchard, fueled with Selwyn’s blood. In fury, he kicked Selwyn’s corpse.

“Lucius,” he muttered to himself. “I must summon Lucius at last.” The existence of a plan calmed his fury somewhat. He took a deep breath and returned to Malfoy Manor.

* * *

_Hogsmeade._

Adelaide huddled in the corner, eyes averted, trying to make herself invisible—or, failing that, as small and insignificant as possible. Nearby, Bellatrix loomed over Frank and Alice Longbottom, who sat in their own chairs, stricken with stupefying curses.

“I _know_ that you know who they are!” she roared, slashing her wand through the air. A red streak appeared across Mistress Longbottom’s face. “They were raised in this pathetic little village, and now they are wards of the Black family—of which _you_ are a part! You placed them there.”

“My lady,” the mayor said, “we did not. We don’t _know_ who took them in—”

 _“Liar!”_ Bellatrix brought her wand wide in an arc. Both Longbottoms collapsed to the floor, twitching and suddenly screaming. In the corner, Adelaide muffled a cry.

“P-please,” Longbottom gasped through the pain. “I—know— _nothing.”_

Bellatrix snarled bestially, rage flowing through her veins. “You are in league with Riddle too, are you not? What was your promised reward?” She slashed the wand once again, causing them to double into themselves in agony. _“My daughter_ is the rightful heir of the fief, not some filthy-blooded bastard-spawn!”

 _“Mother!”_ Adelaide cried out as Mayor Longbottom’s twitches suddenly increased in frequency and appeared to cease to be to any degree under his control. His body flopped on the floor as though it were a puppet.

Bellatrix lifted her curse momentarily and gazed at her victims. The wizard lay on the floor, slack-jawed, saliva dribbling from his mouth. Nearby, his wife also lay bonelessly, though she did not appear quite as far gone. Bellatrix breathed deeply, attempting to calm herself. It would be no good if she reduced them to gibbering insanity without learning what she had set out to discover.

“You,” she said coldly. “You know something, do you not? What are the names they use now?”

“Don’t… know,” muttered Alice Longbottom, shaking her head repetitively. “Don’t know….”

“Then who took them in? Which Blacks?”

“Lord Arct… Arctur….” She struggled to say the name.

“Lord Arcturus,” Bellatrix said. “Of course. He is dead. I assume they are in Lord Orion’s service now.”

Mistress Longbottom did not want to confirm that, but Bellatrix raised her wand threateningly. The witch flinched and nodded.

“This is difficult,” Bellatrix said as an aside to Adelaide, utterly ignoring the damaged witch and wizard before her, as well as her daughter’s manifest horror at what she was seeing. “Castle Black is a fortress. However, I am of their blood. It may be….”

She finally noticed the expression of horror on Adelaide’s face and turned back to the Longbottoms. “Of course, this is disgusting to you,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding the real reason that Adelaide was upset. “I _am_ sorry. I will take care of it at once.” With an evil smile on her face, she slashed her wand in a three-part zigzag twice, flooding the little cottage with green light.

* * *

_Castle Draconis, Godric’s Hollow._

Lucius’s roar of dismay echoed through the great hall. “He is _here?”_ he exclaimed to the house-elf.

The creature trembled. “Yes, your lordship,” it whimpered.

Narcissa turned to Lucius with alarm in her eyes. “I could _kill_ my sister! Honestly, Lucius, I could this time! I could even kill myself,” she muttered. “I should have protected Adelaide! She could not have wanted to run away with Bella. To think that we could all be safe at Castle l’Etrange right now….”

“We cannot deny him,” Lucius said. “He can get in through a blood ward. At least we have the Mudblood Potter.” To the elf, he said imperiously, “Let him in.”

As Lucius and Narcissa took their seats, the elf scampered away to the grand doors. It snapped its fingers, causing them to open by magic, revealing the white-robed High Lord of Wizards in Britain, Armand Malfoy.

Armand strode forward, pushing the elf aside as though it were nothing more than an object in his path. “Lucius,” he announced as he reached the high seat, “I bid you stand.”

Reluctantly, Lucius and Narcissa stood in the high lord’s presence. They tried to avoid looking at his face. That red glass orb he used as an eye was deeply disturbing.

“As you may know, grandson, we have suffered a setback,” Armand said somberly.

 _“We”?_ Lucius thought. _You presume much, Grandfather._

“The half-blood and the traitors in the Black family”—he gave a disdainful sneer to Narcissa—“have murdered Lord Lestrange and taken over his castle. You and I must plot together how we can recover it and have our rightful revenge against the rebels. I have an idea for this, which relates to Draco’s marital prospects as well.”

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a look. Whatever could he mean by that?

“This is a personal slight against me as well,” he intoned, “since Rodolphus assisted me in a crucial magical matter to preserve my life through these difficult times. I require your assistance now in this endeavor.”

They did not have a shadow a doubt that they knew exactly what he was talking about. Lucius considered his words before speaking. “My lord,” he said, “I think I know what this endeavor is. It is the mixing of a special potion, is it not? A potion with a principal ingredient that is… challenging… to handle, no?”

Armand’s single human eye flashed red. “You know of it, then.”

“Yes,” Lucius said. “But I am not sure that I have the skills to mix a potion of this degree of sensitivity. I would instead volunteer the family potionmaker, a witch from the village named Lily Potter.”

Armand recognized the surname, and in a flash, he remembered that a Potter had married a witch from this village, a witch of no background. “That is a Mudblood,” he said through clenched teeth. “You propose a _Mudblood_ to make my potion? Lucius!”

“She is a very _talented_ Mudblood,” Lucius pleaded. “Grandfather—”

Armand leaned forward, eye flashing furiously. “You are a coward, Lucius. You merely do not want to make the potion because you are superstitious and believe the English lies about the supposed ‘curse’ that comes from handling its main ingredient! I stand before you now, having _drunk_ it for years. Do I look cursed to you? I order you and Lady Narcissa to come to Malfoy Manor at once to serve me.”

“Draco—”

“Draco needs to learn how to rule,” Armand said. “He will be placed in charge here. If the half-blood Riddle can be a regent, Draco certainly can. We will confer about my plan for him, and then, after all the arrangements have been made, we will crush this rebellion that we face and bring peace to the land once again.”

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged desperate, defeated glances. If only Bellatrix had not acted the fool!

“Bring the Mudblood, after all,” Armand reconsidered. “She may be a useful hostage, since young Potter fights with the Riddles.”

 _Unless he insists on watching me make the potion,_ Lucius thought, a drowning man suddenly thrown a rope, _I will make her do it and tell Grandfather that it is my work._ He turned to Narcissa, whose shrewd, intelligent face showed that she had the same idea. They nodded to each other.


	53. Witch's Debt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and thank you again! There is _a lot_ going on in this chapter, and the main event is probably the most _Game of Thrones_ -y political ploy I've written for this story. It may be pretty shocking, but I've tried to make the motivations of the characters convincing... so do let me know what you think! We are nearing the endgame quickly.

_London._

Armand Malfoy adjusted the eye patch that covered his red glass eye. It was an irritation to wear it, but he was going to be among Muggles, who would be taken aback. That in itself would not matter to Malfoy but for the fact that some of the Muggles included the king’s personal staff and advisors—and possibly the monarch himself, if he had an audience.

With his single human eye, he gazed at the nervous young wizard beside him, as they waited in the king’s residence. Neither of them spoke. This wizard was frightened of the great lord, and Malfoy had nothing to discuss. He did not need to strategize with this fellow, a lowly knight, about what to say to the king. That implied that they were equals. _He_ would speak, of course, and this wizard would follow his lead.

On Armand’s orders, Lucius had summoned two of his vassals to take up residence at Malfoy Manor: Macnair and Dolores of Umbridge. It was through Lady Umbridge that Armand had negotiated this tentative alliance with the fellow before him. He had seen instantly that, despite her cruel nature, she could sound as sweet as honey if she chose. Apparently, the young man was taken in by that.

The seneschal emerged. “His Majesty will see your lordship—and Sir Percival.”

Next to Malfoy, Percy Weasley’s young face relaxed in relief. He knew the king. Stephen liked him, too—at least, as well as a monarch could even know a knight. That was a surety against any ill intent by Malfoy, he assumed. He and Malfoy followed the royal seneschal into the king’s little audience chamber.

The monarch was clad for fighting rather than court. It was apparent that he wished the audience with these two wizards to be brief and to-the-point. The wizards bowed, Percy enthusiastically, Malfoy with more than a hint of resentment.

“It has been many years since you were here, Lord Malfoy,” the king observed.

Armand nodded tightly. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have had to keep order among my own people, and it is a difficult task.”

“We are given to understand that the reason for your presence today is that order among people of magic has broken down.”

Malfoy assented. “Yes, Your Majesty, unfortunately it has.” He pointed to his eye patch. “I myself suffered this injury at the hands of rebels. My chief vassal, Lord Lestrange—yes, Your Majesty, one of your people”—for Stephen’s eyes had flickered with awareness of the provenance of that surname—“was killed recently by an organized group of rebellious nobles, who are using fearsome beasts in their unlawful revolt. After his death, his widow, an Englishwoman”—Malfoy deemed it best not to mention Bellatrix’s Rosier blood—“has been on a rampage through the countryside, murdering at will, in a misguided attempt to install her daughter in the family seat.”

Percy gave Malfoy a look of surprise. He had known about the death of Rodolphus Lestrange at Riddle’s hands, but he had not known about Bellatrix’s deeds.

Stephen considered what he had just heard. “What is it that you want from us, Lord Malfoy?” he finally asked. “Our war seems to be _finally_ at its end, though we are still finding it difficult to restore order. I am not sure that we have the men to assist you, especially if it involves black magic.” His lips curled briefly.

Percy had done good work on the Muggle king in his service, informing him that there was a difference between ordinary modern magic and malevolent sorcery from the heathen past, and that most wizards and witches disclaimed the latter. However, the king did not understand the subtleties of the distinction. To him, any magic used against his allies—or to undermine virtues and ideals in which he believed—was “black magic.”

“What I want, Your Majesty, is very simple. I seek the assistance of your wizardly knight’s family and allies in my endeavor. I merely wish your royal permission, since people would interpret the presence of a king’s knight in such an alliance to imply your agreement with my goals.”

The king gazed at Percy, then back to Malfoy. He seemed surprised that this was all the great lord wanted. “As you wish, in that case,” he said. “Sir Percival, I give you permission to negotiate any alliance or contract with Lord Malfoy provided that you keep your oath to me.”

Percy bowed deeply. Beside him, Malfoy suppressed a smirk.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

Molly Weasley was of highly mixed feelings about her audience before the high lord. Her husband’s antecedents had forfeited their title by refusing to swear loyalty to Malfoy due to his pureblood supremacism. Through the years, the family had taken great pride in the resulting reduction to being simple, honest yeomanry. Although she was not a Weasley herself by blood, Molly, like the good wife that she always assured herself she was, had identified thoroughly with her husband’s family, which meant that she shared this pride. A deep part of her was repulsed by the idea of making an alliance with Malfoy now.

However, Percy—her favorite child—was vouching for Malfoy’s good intentions. _“He has brought Lord Lucius into his household, and he tells me it is to prepare him for the high lordship,”_ Percy had explained earnestly to his mother. _“Perhaps Lord Malfoy has realized that he is an old man and is facing death. That can make someone reassess quite a lot.”_

Percy had been very impressed with Lord Lucius’s vassal, Lady Umbridge, who had actually made the initial overtures to him. Here, too, Molly had been uneasy. James Potter had told them that this woman had been one of Lucius’s torturers after the failed rebellion in Godric’s Hollow. However, Percy was adamant that it could not be so. Lucius Malfoy had many staff who worked for him. Why would a titled vassal have done the dirty work, especially a lady, instead of a lowly _male_ commoner who was tasked with administering justice? Molly did not like to disbelieve their family’s longtime ally, but Percy’s argument made sense to her.

And most importantly, Percy had hinted of extremely wicked acts on the part of the Riddle-Black alliance, which Malfoy would explain in detail at this audience, as well as a great opportunity for Ginny. Molly was not the brightest of people, but even she could make a guess at what that meant. Armand Malfoy was likely going to offer a betrothal for Ginny to a son of one of his vassals—or perhaps even the vassal himself, if he had any who were single. Since it seemed that there was no hope of a marriage between her and Potter’s son—he was apparently adamant about his relationship with that eccentric Lovegood’s daughter, and now fought beside the Riddles, to boot—it was distinctly possible that James Potter was displeased with the Malfoy overtures because of that selfish consideration. It was another reason to believe her own son instead of him, Molly assured herself.

Lucius emerged through one of the doors at the head of the great hall. “His high lordship, my grandfather, Armand Malfoy.”

Percy, Molly, Arthur, and Bill Weasley stood in respect as the high lord assumed the high seat. Molly smothered a gasp at the sight of his magical eye. What had _happened_ to him? What kind of magic had the rebels used that would prevent him from healing such an injury? He was wrinkled and thin with age, and instantly Molly felt a rush of sympathy. He was certainly facing down death, she decided, and what kind of people would take violent advantage of a feeble old man who was dying? Molly recalled some of the stories she had heard about Riddle’s noble family, the Gaunts. _Apparently the apple does not fall far from the tree,_ she thought.

Malfoy regarded them with hungry interest. “Sir Percival,” he said. “I thank you for bringing your family before me.”

Percy bowed.

“We have much to discuss,” Malfoy intoned. “Lucius, order the house-elves to bring chairs for the Weasleys so that they may be comfortable.” It was a concession; Malfoy would have preferred to make them stand, but he knew that some of them would require persuading. This was a painless way for him to endear himself to them—and he observed, with pleasure, that the three older Weasleys were all surprised and flattered, to varying degrees.

Once the elves had provided chairs for the Weasleys—hard, lacking cushions, but nonetheless better than standing—he began to speak.

“I understand that your son has done the Muggle king good service,” Malfoy said. “I also understand that your family has supported him in the Muggle war that his female cousin insisted upon waging.”

“Yes, your lordship,” said Arthur nervously.

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed. “Although it seems that the Muggle war is finally winding down, there is still anarchy and chaos throughout the countryside, and it is not limited to the Muggle nobles. I myself now face a rebellion from House Black and House Riddle. They have murdered Lord Lestrange and unlawfully taken his castle. Furthermore, young Riddle used a monster in this raid: a basilisk.”

The Weasleys gasped.

Malfoy nodded importantly. “Lord Lestrange valiantly attempted to defend himself, using a curse on the monster’s eyes that neutralized that danger, but I personally witnessed Riddle ordering the beast to _devour_ Lestrange—and it did. Riddle even denies his enemies a Christian burial, you see. This is what I face, my friends—for I do hope I can count you as friends,” he said, his words dripping with insincerity. “The enemies I face are as monstrous as the creature their leader commands.”

Arthur spoke up nervously. “Your eye, Lord Malfoy—did they—?”

“Yes, I also took a curse in the face that resulted in the loss of my eye,” he lied.

“How dishonorable to attack an elderly wizard with such a curse!” Molly burst out.

“I thank you,” he said, “but this is what they do. I have more yet to say of their atrocities, in fact.”

“Please continue, my lord,” said Percy.

Malfoy smiled. “In the days following this attack, Riddle sneaked onto my lands and ritually murdered one of my loyal vassals, Selwyn, in the dark of night. He then used poor Selwyn’s blood to kill my crops beyond recovery or even salvage at harvest, which is an ancient heathen ritual. It seems that Riddle is enamored of ancient pagan magic.”

The Weasleys were disgusted. “I have never heard of such a ritual,” Percy exclaimed. “It must be ancient indeed.”

“Ancient and vile,” said Malfoy. “But Riddle has quite an affinity for such magic. I have not told you the worst.”

“Our son Ronald has told us about Riddle,” Molly said. “They never got on at Hogwarts.”

“Then that reflects well on your son,” Malfoy oozed, “for I also learned, in that same attack on Castle l’Etrange, that Riddle has performed a very wicked ritual. He took a Killing Curse, but he revived himself. There is only one way to do that. Yes,” he continued as the Weasleys all gasped, “Riddle must have split his soul. I think he used the murder of another of my vassals for this, Amycus Carrow.”

Bill and Arthur Weasley exchanged concerned glances at Malfoy’s mention of Carrow. “My lord,” Bill ventured, “with all due respect… we have heard that Lord Lestrange led an attack on Riddle’s castle, and that Lord Carrow was with him. Is there any truth to this?”

Malfoy was prepared for that. “This must be another tale that they spread. Lord Lestrange did visit the castle, but it was to make a peace offering to the family: congratulatory gifts for the marriages of Lady Riddle and Lord Thomas, and for the birth of Lady Riddle’s twins. They interpreted it as an attack,” he lied blithely. “Riddle captured Lord Carrow. I briefly hoped that we could secure his freedom, but now I presume Riddle murdered an unarmed captive and used the killing to create a Horcrux.”

He paused, leaving the Weasleys a moment to contemplate that.

“And now, with the death of Lord Lestrange, we face a new threat,” Malfoy continued. “I speak, of course, of his widow, Bellatrix. As I explained to the king himself, she has gone on a rampage throughout the land, murdering people, in order to place her daughter on the high seat of the Lestrange family. As you may know, the girl is a strumpet, having seduced one of her father’s vassals, whom her mother then murdered. Such a girl obviously cannot hold the seat.”

“Is Lady Bellatrix doing this at the behest of the Riddles?” Molly inquired.

“Very likely,” Malfoy said. “As you know, she is a Black by birth, and that family has entered a treasonous alliance with the Riddles. Only my grandson’s lady wife has remained loyal. I presume that Bellatrix has joined the rest of her traitorous relations. She has murdered her brother-in-law, Lord Rabastan, who was an idiot and utterly unable to defend himself. I have learned that she has also murdered your own friends, Mayor Longbottom and his wife.” Malfoy leaned back in his seat, smiling, certain that this would be the decisive remark.

The Weasleys regarded each other with shocked, appalled expressions. “We have… been unable to communicate with them in several days,” Percy ventured, “and they did not answer their door. She _killed_ them?”

Malfoy nodded. “I am afraid so. She believes, wrongly, that they held the knowledge of a secret illegitimate line of Lestranges. There is no such line, of course,” he lied, as he knew perfectly well that Dirk Cresswell’s sons were indeed of that blood— _and_ that the Blacks were concealing their existence. Suppressing their claim on his ally’s fief was part of the bargain he had made with Arcturus Black to spare Regulus’s life. “However, she will do anything to prop up her daughter’s imagined ‘rights,’ and she has the backing of her rebellious family.”

“Neville is at the Burrow with us,” Bill said. “Their son,” he explained to Malfoy. “We are distant cousins. We urged him to stay until we could assure him it was safe to go home….”

“It is not safe,” Malfoy said. “It is safe for no one until the rebellion has been put down, and I have summoned you here today to request your alliance in that effort. The king has given his leave to your knighted son. And now… I have a very honorable, very illustrious offer to make to you as evidence of my good faith.”

The Weasleys all waited, thinking about the families that they knew to be Malfoy’s vassals. Which ones had unmarried sons? Who was it to be?

“Lucius’s son, the Malfoy heir, Draco, is without a betrothed, since the Lestrange girl betrayed him,” Armand said. “Your daughter is a fine young witch, I am told—magically talented, and of good old blood. I propose a marriage between the two of them—and of course, reinstatement of your ancient title, so that the match would be suitable.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. He instantly shut it in the lord’s presence. Molly stifled a scream. In all their speculations, they had never—not once—considered the idea that Draco Malfoy himself would be Armand’s proposed match for Ginny.

Percy’s eyes were glittering as his admittedly limited imagination took flight. The future brother-in-law of the High Lord of Wizarding Britain, with the ear of the king himself! He chastised himself for that thought; although Lord Armand might be near death, Lord Lucius was young and healthy. Still, gold and glory would flow to the Weasley family like a river.

Molly was stunned. Her instinctive dislike of Malfoy’s emphasis on Ginny’s “good old blood” was quickly being washed away by other thoughts. _I have always known that he prefers pureblood witches and wizards, even if he is moderating his views in old age,_ she thought, _and it’s true that Ginny is a pureblood. Of course he would consider that a point in her favor._ She knew little about Draco Malfoy; most of her son Ron’s venom about Slytherin nobles at school had been reserved for Riddle, who, by Malfoy’s account of blood rituals, a basilisk, and a Horcrux, deserved that and more. Perhaps Draco was a fine young man, if Ron—so painfully aware of his social status—had nothing bad to say of _the_ young wizarding aristocrat in Britain.

For a moment she remembered that they were allowing Neville houseroom, and that he had just lost his parents and did not yet know that. He and Ginny were fond of each other, and although she—and Percy, to be honest—did not entirely approve of the match, they had resigned themselves to it, as Potter’s son had turned on them, left his own father for his godfather’s household, and now fought with the Riddles, beside his godfather. _A member of the Black family,_ Molly remembered. _Malfoy must be correct about them. But Neville… it would be cruel to jilt him… except that we never gave formal consent to them,_ she suddenly recalled. _We have granted him houseroom as the son of an ally, a distant cousin, and a friend—not as a fiancé. We are breaking no promises._

Arthur was flattered by the proposal, and wrong-footed at first. It was _such_ a good opportunity for advancement… and really, if they sought to keep Malfoy’s goodwill, they would be foolish to reject it. Besides, it seemed that Riddle really was a monster. However, another little voice warred with this one in Arthur’s mind. It seemed far too convenient that Malfoy and Lestrange would be such one-sided victims in every regard. He was particularly skeptical that Lestrange and Carrow had brought gifts to the Riddle family. Had Lady Riddle not declared the Carrows traitors and pronounced their death sentence? Arthur was sure he had heard that a couple of years ago. Hadn’t the Carrows _been_ vassals of the Gaunt family once, in fact? He was pretty sure that was true as well. If so, Riddle had been within his rights to execute Carrow if he set foot inside the barony of Hangleton—and Lestrange would have known it, and not brought the man along for any supposed gifting visit. That was why Arthur doubted it really had been that. _And yet,_ he thought suddenly, _perhaps it is true. The Grangers’ castle was attacked around that same time. Why would they do that so suddenly, after four years of peace, unless they had been provoked?_ Arthur could not recall if the battle at Parselhall had come first, nor could he remember if James had told him who had been the attacker of Castle Grange. _Was_ it Lestrange himself—or Bellatrix? She obviously was capable….

 _And if Malfoy is telling the truth about Riddle’s resurrection after a fatal curse, creating a Horcrux was certainly wicked,_ Arthur thought. _As well as the old Celtic ritual that he believes Riddle performed on his fields… and feeding Lestrange to his basilisk. I never heard any ill of Lady Riddle, but for some reason, her son is acting on her behalf now. Did she die? What happened to her?_ Arthur resolved to find the answer, and from independent sources. He was not going to ask Malfoy.

Bill was deeply skeptical and uneasy about this. Malfoy’s words seemed far too accommodating and convenient. He could not guess just what the trick was, but he was certain there was a trick involved somehow. His own suspicion was that Malfoy had learned of his alliance with the goblins and meant to undermine it, probably with a passing clause in the marriage contract for Draco and Ginny.

His brothers had dutifully reported to him that the plan to let the goblins of Europe take back what was theirs had gone over very badly with the children of their allies—and that Riddle and Granger had been present to hear it. Who knew how far it had spread after that? Bill had not particularly liked the idea of letting goblins plunder noble houses of anything they claimed as theirs, but the hard truth was that they were restive creatures, with excellent weapons and significant magic, and Bill had put himself in their power—as he had realized belatedly during his stay with them on the Continent. In the end, he had had little choice but to make a deal with them on their terms. He had hoped that if the goblins actually came to England to stake their claims, the Friends of the Founders could limit their plundering to a few of the worst nobles, such as, unfortunately, Malfoy and Lestrange. If Malfoy had learned of the deal, he was probably trying to blow it up. That would be very bad news. The goblins were vengeful.

Percy was speaking. “We thank your high lordship for this honor,” he said. “The magnitude of it is not unfelt. We will have an answer for you as soon as we confer as a family.”

Malfoy was annoyed, but he smiled in seeming accommodation. “Certainly. You may withdraw to the end of the hall to discuss it.”

The Weasleys were taken aback at the clear order to settle it here and now, instead of being permitted to return to their own home to talk about it. However, they did not dare gainsay him. They shuffled toward the other side of the great hall, leaving the two Malfoy men to observe silently.

Lucius did not particularly want Draco to wed Ginevra Weasley. It was not that he had heard anything against her personally, but he deeply and profoundly disliked the parents. At Hogwarts, they had all fought as a matter of principle. Arthur and Molly were self-righteous, and the woman was obnoxious about it, to boot. She had changed little, except for the worse. Lucius did not want such people as his in-laws, even if they were pureblood, and even if his grandfather did return their old title to them.

Armand was certain that they would accept the offer. They were all horrified at the mix of hypocritical truth and cold-blooded lies that he had told about Riddle, and he had played his age very well indeed. They were all so certain that he was practically on his deathbed! Then, too, the knighted son was very ambitious, and his delight was manifest. The mother, too, seemed inclined to take the offer. He was less certain of the father and the older son, but very likely, the father could be bullied by his own family members, and the son was being extorted by goblins. Armand smirked to himself at that thought. He did not know exactly what kind of bargain the young man had arranged with the goblins, but it was widely known that he had been on the Continent amongst them for a while, and goblins would not let a wizard out of their long-fingered clutches without extorting something from him, usually under pain of death. Armand was going to find out what it was and make absolutely certain that the goblins delivered their sentence upon not just the man himself, but his family.

His offer of Draco was _not_ a false one. He truly had been unable to find anyone else for the boy from the daughters of his vassals. The Parkinson girl was apparently not a maiden, based on the hints of her father about her being caught in her betrothed’s bed, but even that made her unacceptable for Draco. It was not that Armand particularly _wanted_ Draco to wed the daughter of a blood-traitor family like the Weasleys, but she was a pureblood, whatever views she held. For Malfoy’s purposes, her wizarding blood and presumably fertile womb were all that mattered. It wasn’t as if he intended her to _live_ after she had borne a new, pureblood Malfoy son. Lucius need not know that until it was a _fait accompli_.

The Weasleys broke apart and began to walk back toward the high seat. Both Malfoys watched them with sharp eyes—human and magical—and waited solemnly.

Percy spoke for his family. “We accept your offer, your lordship, and will aid you in quelling the rebellion by Riddle. As for Ginevra, we will present her to you at the earliest convenience.”

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

Tom and Hermione accepted the oaths of Bertram and Wyman Nigellus Fitz Lestrange—as they had just been renamed. Their father had been the son of Roland Lestrange, but since he had borne his mother’s surname rather than being called “Fitzroland”—not that Tom blamed the woman, since the filth had raped her—it would have been odd to give the grandchildren that name. It was apparent to Tom and Hermione from their original surname that Arcturus Black had attempted to imply that they were actually bastards of the Black family, to protect them. However, Regulus’s story was indubitable, and to their surprise, the brothers’ looks even betrayed some of the Lestrange heredity. There was clear resemblance to their late uncle. Even if he had never heard Regulus’s account, Tom would have noticed it and assumed they were Lestranges by blood, though admittedly he probably would have assumed they were Rodolphus’s own offspring. If Bellatrix had ever seen them—which, presumably, she had not—she probably would have murdered them on the spot.

 _Bellatrix._ Tom sincerely hoped that the woman would be reasonable. Their plans would be much easier to pull off if Bellatrix and Adelaide assented. If they did not, they could create a great deal of trouble. It had been several days since he had sent his letter to Lucius Malfoy….

“My lord!” exclaimed young Avery. “We have visitors!”

“Oh? Who are they?” Tom hoped it was someone replying to their letter.

“Neville Longbottom and Ginevra Weasley.”

Hermione was instantly alert—and alarmed. What could have happened? Something must have. What were the Friends of the Founders up to now? She immediately assumed that Neville and Ginny had decided to support the Riddles, but over what final outrage?

She did not have to wait long to find out. The young pair—her former schoolmates—made their way quickly to the high seat, where she, Tom, and Regulus Black sat. Tom dismissed the brothers to their quarters, not wanting them to immediately hear anything potentially sensitive that did not necessarily concern them.

Ginny’s eyes were wide in fear—and anger, Hermione noted. The anger of betrayal. Hermione knew that look. Beside her, Neville looked hunted, and he was clearly attempting to retain command of himself, as though he had received some extremely bad news.

“Friends,” Tom said, “it is good to see you, but what brings you here?”

Hermione was pleased with him for acknowledging her friends as his. A surge of warmth came over her. Perhaps her words of concern about his path had taken root in his mind.

Neville shook his head to Ginny, as if to tell her that he could not speak. She instantly understood. “Terrible news,” she said. “First of all—that bitch Bellatrix _murdered_ Neville’s parents.”

Hermione was utterly shocked. Her heart instantly went out to Neville. _I understand this pain above all,_ she thought unhappily. She reached for Neville’s hands. “Oh, Neville,” she exclaimed feelingly. “I am so, so sorry. Please, both of you, take a seat. You don’t stay on your feet here, among us.” Relieved, Neville and Ginny took two of the available chairs.

Tom’s expression was hard and angry. “Bellatrix? She left Lucius Malfoy’s castle and murdered your parents? Do you know why?” He had already guessed, but he was not sure how much they knew.

Ginny spoke again. “My parents told us that she did it because she believed they were protecting a secret illegitimate line of Lestranges, but that it wasn’t true.”

“It _is_ true,” Tom said harshly. “Old Lestrange, the father of Rodolphus—who is dead several days ago, of course—sired a half-blood son.” He thought about adding that it was through rape, but decided against it. The woman who had been the victim was dead, and it would do the brothers—his new sworn allies—no good for that to come out. “This son married a witch at a very young age and had two sons of his own. The Black family protected them, due to a… friendship… between Lord Regulus”—he acknowledged his ally courteously—“and their father, who was killed by Armand Malfoy. As a matter of fact, I just accepted their oaths of fealty right before you arrived. They are definitely Lestranges; they even look like them. The elder is to inherit this castle.” He scowled at the other side of the room. “So Bellatrix murdered your parents, I presume to protect her daughter. She truly is a bitch. We had made her an offer to wed her daughter to the elder brother, but evidently she did not like that. I am deeply sorry, Neville. It is a hard thing, as Hermione knows too well.”

Neville suppressed a sniffle. Ginny squeezed his hand compassionately and continued speaking. “Unfortunately, there is more. This is very bad news, I’m afraid.” She took a deep breath, trying to subdue her own anger. “My parents and brother Percy have entered into an alliance with Armand Malfoy to try to defeat you—”

Tom, Hermione, and Regulus gasped in shock.

“—and they intend to marry me off to Draco.” She clenched Neville’s hand defiantly. “I won’t do it! So Neville and I have come here to offer our support to you instead.”

Tom was almost too stunned to speak. Hermione took charge in his stead. “Your parents… and brother Percy. The one who is a royal knight. I have to ask… the king….”

“I do not know what his part is in this,” Ginny said. “Probably very little. What does he care about our affairs? He has a country to put in order. Percy went before the king with Malfoy and claims that Malfoy told the king that he—Malfoy—only sought royal permission to use a king’s knight in quelling a revolt. That could be all there is, truly. And Malfoy _does_ officially serve as the king’s voice in all wizarding affairs, even though he certainly doesn’t consult with the king before doing anything. The bigger problem is that Malfoy has—at least, I think he has—told a lot of foul lies about you to my family to get their support, and they believed him!”

“What did your family say Malfoy told them about me?” Tom finally croaked. He was suddenly very uneasy.

“Oh, loads. Let’s see. Well, first, he said that Bellatrix was acting on your orders.”

“That is _absolutely_ a lie,” Tom declared hotly. “As I said, we made her an offer that was perfectly reasonable, and she rejected it and went on a murderous rampage. That is _certainly_ not what we were aiming for.”

Ginny nodded. “I guessed it probably was a lie. Everyone knows about the enmity between your family and the Lestranges, including her, even though she was just one by marriage. What else did Malfoy say… oh, yes. He has a magical eye now, a red marble, and he said it’s because of a curse that someone on your side cast at him.”

“That is a lie too,” Hermione snarled. “Here’s how he really obtained that eye. He and a band of his followers murdered my parents! It happened shortly after my wedding. My cousin, who was the heir of the castle, rode to defend it, and he put an arrow through his eye. Tom and I think he may be an untrained wizard himself. His son definitely is. But he’s not ‘on our side,’” she concluded regretfully. “He doesn’t like magic.”

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Neville said, looking at Hermione with the gaze of one who shared a terrible kinship of previous experience. “I see now.”

“What else did Malfoy claim?” Hermione asked. So far, everything Ginny had repeated had indeed been false, but she had a bad feeling that there was more to come, and that some of these statements would be true….

Ginny and Neville exchanged uneasy glances. “He said… some things about your husband, Lord Thomas.”

“What did he say?” Tom asked.

They winced. “He said that you had fed Lestrange to a basilisk.”

Tom sighed. “The basilisk did swallow him. I am a Parselmouth, as you may know, and I can control it. The wretch had temporarily blinded it with a curse to its eyes, so the only weapon it had left was its venom. I ordered it to bite him, and it did what hungry snakes do. It happened very quickly. I did not order it to pick his bones or anything of that sort, if that was what Malfoy claimed to make it sound even worse.” In truth, he did not have a particle of regret for Lestrange’s fate, but he could tell that this disturbed Ginny and Neville.

“That _is_ how snakes eat,” Ginny muttered, “swallowing prey whole. It was quick?”

“It was very quick. No one else fell in that way, either. Lestrange insisted on challenging the basilisk directly. He made himself a target.”

“Did he….” Ginny considered. “Malfoy apparently claimed that Lestrange and Amycus Carrow went to Parselhall to offer gifts to your family, and that the rumor of an attack was false. I assume it isn’t.”

“You assume rightly,” Tom growled. “Lestrange, _both_ Carrows, and several others came to Parselhall with the aid of a traitor, and they tried to kill everyone except my mother. They failed, obviously, but Lestrange used a monstrous curse from his family’s homeland on my mother—a curse that keeps her in a magical sleep until every member of her family is dead.”

Neville was shocked; he had heard of the Curse of the Killing Frost. “He did? But then, she should be all right now—”

“She still sleeps, because he merely activated the cursed object. Armand Malfoy was the caster. So,” Tom said, “no ‘gifts’—unless you consider a brooch bearing a vile Frankish curse banned in the ninth century as a ‘gift.’ They attacked, and we are completely within our rights to occupy this castle.”

Neville and Ginny considered that. “I assumed that part was a lie,” she said again. “But Malfoy said… two more things. He claimed that you had cursed his fields with the blood of one of his vassals.”

Tom sighed. Hermione knew that it would be extremely inappropriate to say “I told you so” at this moment, but she knew that he felt it.

“I did,” he finally admitted. “It was one of the vassals who attacked us, though. And the fields I cursed were too small to feed anyone except his own household and vassals.” He gazed at them defiantly. “Malfoy is prejudiced against magic from this country, and the ritual I used is from the days of the ancient Celtic druids. That is why he hates it—that, and the fact that I used it against his food.” He stared them down. “You said there were two more things. That’s one.”

“He said that you killed Amycus Carrow and split your soul and created….” Ginny trailed off, trying to remember the term. She had never heard of the magic before this, but it was certainly a shocking and terrible thing to do.

“A Horcrux,” Neville finished. He gazed at Tom. “I know about _that_ too. I don’t regard it as much better than the Curse of the Killing Frost, to be honest, Riddle. Is _this_ true?”

On the high seat, Tom sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. Hermione gazed down. Regulus sighed as well. Everyone who had come to Castle l’Etrange had seen Tom’s revival, and most of them had understood what it meant. They had no particular objection to it, since he had told them all that Malfoy had done it too, and it was clear that—unlike the filicide Malfoy—Tom had done it for his family. But it was clear that Neville and Ginny had a different view.

“It’s true,” Tom said. “Hear me out, though, before you judge too harshly. I did it because I was _going to war._ Hermione is not with child, and she was also injured in the attack on Parselhall, so she _can’t_ carry a child until she is fully healed—which won’t be for at least six months. If anything happened to me, the future of my line would depend on my half-brother and half-sister, who are small, weak infants, delivered early. That’s why I did it. And there is something else you should know.” He leaned forward. “Armand Malfoy himself has one.”

Their eyes widened. “That hypocrite,” Ginny said furiously. “I _knew_ he wasn’t to be trusted!”

“He is certainly not to be trusted,” Tom agreed. “He has one himself, and I know this because that same arrow that shot him while he was murdering my wife’s family went to his brain and killed him. He revived himself after Lestrange fed him a cup of his personal restorative draught… which is to say, unicorn blood.”

That shocked them. “That despicable, accursed bastard!” Neville exclaimed. “How dare he tell tales about _you,_ even those that are true, if he’s done the same thing and worse!”

Tom nodded. “Your instincts were right, and I’m very glad that you came here. I hope that it doesn’t come to blows, and that your family members will see reason and break off the alliance. How were they so taken in?”

“Dreams of gold and power, I guess,” Ginny said. “I think Percy and Mother are utter fools to believe his promises.”

“‘Percy and Mother’?” Hermione repeated. “What about the rest of your family? Do they not have an opinion?”

Ginny scowled. “Father is less enthusiastic. He thinks that the only reason Malfoy made the alliance offer was that he’s lost so many of his own people, but he follows Mother’s lead. Bill is skeptical and thinks Malfoy is up to something bad. We have written to Charlie, and I don’t know what he thinks. The twins don’t seem to care; lately they are only interested in going into trade and making a heap of gold, and they see this as an opportunity. Ron… to my surprise… agrees with Bill.”

Tom and Hermione exchanged looks. That was a surprise to them too.

“What of Dumbledore?” Hermione asked. “Does he know?”

Ginny glowered. “He does. He doesn’t like Malfoy, of course, but he thinks that Malfoy will soon die anyway. Clearly, he is wrong. It sounds as if Malfoy has no intention of dying.”

“Malfoy’s plan appears to be to make sure the line continues, but to kill off the Malfoy of each successive generation once he—and it’s very interesting indeed that it’s always ‘he’—reaches a certain age,” Regulus said. “My guess is that he intends to establish himself as the immortal, almost godlike ancient patriarch of the family that all future generations fear.”

That seemed logical to Tom and Hermione. “Dumbledore is trapped in his alliance,” Tom said roughly. “When I retrieved the basilisk from Hogwarts, he told me as much. He might indeed think that Malfoy is about to die, but it would be because he expects Malfoy will _lose the war,_ not because Malfoy is old. I told him what Malfoy has done. He knows about mine, too.”

“It could be that Dumbledore did not raise a fuss about the plan because he expects it will be moot soon,” Hermione said. “I wonder, too… might he have _helped_ you escape somehow?”

Ginny and Neville exchanged a startled look. “You know,” she said, “he might have. We sent an owl to Professor McGonagall, since she is the Head of House for both of us, and she assisted us secretly.”

“How?”

“She sent a phoenix, and instructions to hold its tail feathers. It Apparated us past my family’s magical ward.”

Tom gaped at them. “Dumbledore had a part in it, then. That was his phoenix. I’ve seen it before.” He glanced at Hermione in delighted surprise. “Dumbledore has switched sides.”

For the first time since they arrived, Neville and Ginny smiled.

“You are very welcome here,” Hermione assured them. “Now, please, take your rest. There are plenty of rooms, and we have this castle—and Parselhall—secured. Thank you so much for offering your support.” She gazed at them seriously. “Would you like to see Father Alphard Black? He isn’t here, but many of his relatives are. We could summon him.”

Neville blushed pink. “No,” Ginny answered for them both. “We want to finish Hogwarts. I think it will be all right.”

* * *

“Bellatrix has to go,” Tom said to Hermione when they were alone in the bedchamber they had temporarily claimed. “God knows what the Weasleys will try to tell the Muggle king about wizards and witches now.”

“Witches in particular,” Hermione said cynically. “It would certainly be a targeted appeal to the king: a woman, committing evil acts and murdering at will because she wants to eliminate all competitors to her _daughter.”_

“I am also worried about what they may tell him about me,” he confessed. “I don’t regret what I’ve done, but… this is very unlucky. I did not anticipate that Malfoy would make an alliance offer to the Weasleys.”

“Nor did I,” Hermione said. “I suppose I should have foreseen it. We have decimated the ranks of his sworn vassals. It is a logical ploy. I’m glad that Dumbledore has switched over this, though, even if he had to do it in secret.”

“He is the High Master of Hogwarts,” Tom said. “It _would_ have to be in secret. Remember, _officially,_ Malfoy is the rightful High Lord of Wizards. I’m sure the king would strip him of his title and offer royal sanction to our justice if he knew the full truth… but unfortunately, as it stands now, both he and the Weasleys do indeed have royal approval, and we are indeed in rebellion.” He scowled. “This must change, but first, Bellatrix has to die. She is not with us, but if those fools believe Malfoy’s lie, then it could get very bad. This has to be done sooner rather than later.”

“I agree,” Hermione said. She sighed and plumped the pillow. “I hope that we don’t have to do anything to Adelaide, though.”

“If she has assisted her mother, we will,” Tom pointed out.

* * *

Tom and Hermione returned to Parselhall at dawn, leaving the newly raised Lord Bertram Fitz Lestrange nominally in charge of the castle, but actually under Regulus Black’s supervision. Tom was eager to see his home and the rest of his family again, and so was Hermione. With them went Harry and Sirius, the latter somewhat sourly. He seemed to understand that he was going to be strong-armed into the betrothal agreement between their future children whether he liked it or not.

Severus greeted them somberly. “Welcome home, Lord Regent.”

“All is well here?” Tom asked.

Severus nodded. “We have a guest waiting to see you. She arrived in the dead of night.”

“Who?” Tom asked.

“Adelaide Lestrange,” Severus replied, a wry grin on his face, enjoying the looks of shock and delight on Tom’s and Hermione’s respective faces.

They wasted no time. Tom immediately summoned Adelaide to appear before him for questioning under Legilimency. Severus was standing to the side with a bottle of Veritaserum in hand in case she became truculent, but the black-haired girl appeared almost like a different person when she was brought before them. She was thin and vulnerable. She trembled, and her eyes had a haunted, shattered look in them as she spoke.

“Mother has gone mad,” she whispered. “She rejected the offer that you graciously sent, never giving it a moment’s consideration. I wanted to accept it!” she pleaded to Tom, eyes wide.

Hermione noticed that, even now, she preferred to address herself to Tom. Whether that was because of shame over her treatment of Hermione after Hermione made the abortion potion for her, or whether she regarded Tom as the sole authority due to his sex—or blood—Hermione was not sure. She tried not to let it annoy her too much. This girl had suffered a lot.

“I wanted to give this person, this cousin, a chance,” Adelaide continued. “If he and his brother were raised by the Blacks, how bad could they be? They would be taught magic privately, of course—”

“And so they were,” Hermione assured her. “They are very gentlemanlike.”

“You have seen them?” she asked Tom.

“They came to Castle l’Etrange to swear their oaths,” he said. “The elder, Bertram, has assumed titular authority, though your uncle Lord Regulus Black supervises him for now until he is comfortable in his title. They do indeed know magic, and they were raised to be genteel.” He regarded her with a hard stare. “What of your other uncle and aunt?”

“Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa wanted it too, but Mother—she _forced_ me to leave! She asserted that I wasn’t in my right mind. And then she went to my uncle Rabastan’s house and _murdered_ him in cold blood!” She gulped for air. “After that, she went to Hogsmeade. It was horrible. She….” The girl blinked, shuddering at the memory.

Evidently, Bellatrix had not been so merciful to the Longbottoms before she killed them. It was nothing less than Hermione had expected, based on the horrible woman’s existing history with that poor family, but it must have been terrible to witness, whatever it was. “May we offer you some wine?” Hermione asked.

Adelaide nodded. Severus summoned an elf to bring out a goblet of wine. Once it was in Adelaide’s hand, and she was slowly drinking it, she was able to continue.

“She tortured them,” she blurted out. “I think I saw the man’s mind break. He just suddenly… stopped resisting… and after that, he wasn’t right. His wife finally talked right before she was in the same state. Mother killed them then.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I couldn’t be a part of it any longer.”

“Is your mother planning to attack Castle l’Etrange?” Tom asked.

Adelaide nodded. “She means to do it tomorrow. I knew that so many of my family, the Blacks, were there. I wanted to warn them—and you,” she added belatedly.

“Does she have anyone with her?”

“Not ‘anyone,’ exactly,” Adelaide said. “Not… people.”

“What do you mean?” Severus asked, suddenly alarmed.

“There is a type of magic that the Egyptians developed long ago,” Adelaide said, her mouth twisting in disgust. “A magic that can animate corpses. It makes them almost impossible to defeat, since they can take wounds and even the Killing Curse without serious harm. She has done it to her victims.”

Tom, Hermione, and Severus were appalled. “That is—horrible,” Hermione burst out. “I have read about that. They can be destroyed with cursed fire, but will our allies at Castle l’Etrange realize that until it’s too late? We have to warn them _today.”_ She turned to Severus, who instantly took out a piece of parchment and began drafting a letter to send to Regulus.

“My mother,” Adelaide whimpered, realizing what was likely to happen. She reached imploringly, not for Tom, but for Hermione, to the latter’s shock. “Please. Please tell them not to kill her—unless….” She trailed off miserably.

“Unless they have to? You must accept that they may have to,” Tom said. “She may force a duel to the death.”

Adelaide sighed in defeat and loss.


	54. A War of Words and Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more! I just wanted to say, although there are (I think) three chapters remaining not including this one, that I have really enjoyed working on this story and appreciate all the feedback that you have provided over the past year. It's been a great ride, though it is clearly winding down now.
> 
> The past several chapters have been plot-oriented, but never fear, I absolutely intend to have at least one more couple scene between Tom and Hermione, and, yes, one between Merope and Severus too.

_Castle l’Etrange._

Regulus Black was surprised at Neville Longbottom’s reaction to the news and warning from Parselhall. Rather than expressing the horror that he must feel, Neville had become resolute.

“I will fight her,” he said to Regulus and the newly minted Fitz Lestrange brothers. “They were my parents. I won’t let her defile their bodies without consequence.”

The wizards exchanged uneasy glances. “Master Longbottom,” Regulus said diplomatically, “she is a very experienced combatant and will certainly use magic more violent than you would be willing—”

“You’re wrong,” Neville said quietly. “I have no inclination to hold back against her.” He paused. “Between us, Lord Regulus, I still think Riddle—Lord Thomas—has gone too far, but I understand now.”

Regulus did not argue any further. If the young wizard truly believed that he could use magic as violent as Bellatrix was likely to dole out, then so be it. He had already watched both Longbottom and Miss Weasley spar against some of the others, and he was impressed with their skills. Every skilled wand counted, especially since Riddle had taken the basilisk back to Parselhall when he had left.

That afternoon, an additional guest came to Castle l’Etrange. Regulus welcomed Adelaide and quickly introduced her to her newfound cousins. Best to let her get to know them, particularly the elder—though if it turned out that she preferred the younger, Regulus was willing to offer his sanction to that match too. He would simply write into the legal documents that Adelaide’s future offspring would be the heirs of the fief after Lord Bertram, whether those heirs were with him or his younger brother.

Regulus did _not_ want Adelaide to be present for the forthcoming battle, so he told her to stay in her quarters when it happened. It wasn’t that he distrusted her intentions; Riddle had subjected her to Legilimency. She was not coming to the castle to betray them to her mother. However, Regulus was well aware that she should not see the fight. It was cruel to force someone to watch the violent death of a parent, no matter what the parent had done. Adelaide’s loyalties might be tested after such an experience, and there were other factors too. She had never distinguished herself in magical battle, so she would be nearly useless in that regard—but potentially _very_ useful to Bellatrix as a hostage, once things turned against her.

And Bellatrix _was_ going to be killed. Adelaide might have pleaded to the Riddles to try to spare Bellatrix, but that was flatly impossible now. She had committed murder and was now planning to attack the castle that they held, after rejecting an honorable offer. Her life was forfeit; justice had to be served for what she had done—especially to the Longbottoms, now that Neville was fighting beside them. Failing to avenge their suffering, deaths, and the horrible defilement of their corpses would be an unforgivable slight to him. It was for the best that Adelaide not see that the fighters had no intention of giving Bellatrix the chance to surrender.

* * *

_The Burrow._

The rift in the Weasley family had widened since Ginny and Neville’s frantic departure.

“I cannot believe that she would do that!” Molly exclaimed in high dudgeon after her daughter’s disappearance. “She has always been headstrong, but blatant defiance and disobedience like this? From a _daughter,_ especially?”

Percy nodded importantly. “We can but hope that she has not joined our enemies. Lord Malfoy might call off the bargain if she has done that and he learns.”

“I hope he does!” Ron suddenly burst out. He gaped at his older brother in disbelief and contempt. “I don’t like the fact that she sallied about Hogwarts with Neville all the time either—if you ask me, Hogwarts encourages very unladylike behavior in witches—but Malfoy cannot be trusted! You and Mother should never have agreed to this bargain.”

“Hold your tongue,” Percy snapped.

“No, I won’t,” Ron retorted. “This was a stupid thing to agree to. He’s a _Malfoy,_ for Merlin’s sake— _the_ Malfoy! I don’t know what the trick is, but you can mark my words that there is a trick.”

Bill spoke up in agreement. “I think Ron is right,” he said, “and I was thinking about something else. Father and I were in the group that put up wards on Castle Grange after the former lord and lady were killed. They were the parents of your former classmate, Ron.”

“I know who they were,” Ron said. He scowled. “She married _Riddle,_ who you say is a right piece of work—”

“She _had_ to marry Riddle,” Bill said.

“No more than Ginny _has_ to marry Draco Malfoy,” Ron replied. “Besides, she wanted to. You didn’t see them. I did.”

Bill regarded his younger brother with a very shrewd, and also disdainful, look. “Ronald,” he said, “she is _married,_ and apparently happily so. Let it go. You can’t honestly have expected a noble girl to turn to you if she already liked her betrothed—especially if you treated her as you imply you did. If she _had_ been unhappy, and could have put aside her perceptions of duty, she would have looked to a friend, not someone who treated her with contempt.”

Ron turned fiery red. “I _never_ said—”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Bill replied. “It was obvious. Drop it, Ron, and let’s stay on topic. Father and I went to Castle Grange to protect it after someone attacked it and killed the lord and lady, along with most of their household. According to James Potter, the attackers included a wizard who fits Armand Malfoy’s description.” He gazed at his mother and brother Percy with hard, narrowed eyes. “Why did you trust him?”

“James had that from Regulus Black,” Molly said. “That was what he said, that Regulus had come to Godric’s Hollow to tell Sirius this, and James overheard. Regulus is a known ally of the Riddles. Why should we trust _his_ word of what happened? Bellatrix is his sister-in-law,” she added. “How do we know that she wasn’t the attacker, but he blamed it on Lord Malfoy to protect his family?”

“If Bellatrix attacked that castle, then she would not be doing the Riddles’ bidding now, as Malfoy claimed,” Bill shot back.

Arthur spoke up. “I have been thinking about this too,” he said. “Personally, I doubt that Lord Malfoy was honest with us in claiming that Lords Lestrange and Carrow visited Parselhall to offer gifts to the Riddles. But if he _was_ telling the truth, then I suppose it makes a certain kind of sense that Lestrange would then have attacked Castle Grange. Unjust and dishonorable to attack Muggles, of course, but he might have seen it as fair retaliation. However,” he added, “I doubt that anything of the kind happened. I suppose it’s possible that they might have claimed such a thing to Lord Malfoy, and he believed it, but I doubt it happened that way—and I agree with Bill. If Bellatrix attacked Castle Grange, she would not be working with the Riddles now. We should not abandon our _trustworthy_ allies for the sake of what is probably the equivalent of leprechaun gold, Molly,” he said.

“But Riddle, though,” Molly said. “He sounds like a monster, Arthur!”

Arthur sighed. “That is the trouble. I don’t know what to do and don’t know which is worse, Riddle or Malfoy.”

“And Ginny may have run off to join him,” Percy added. “In fact, she probably did. She has Longbottom with her, and we know that Longbottom is friends with James’s son—who lives with Sirius Black now and definitely fights beside the Riddles. We should attempt to retrieve her before those people summon Father Black to marry her and Longbottom in a foolish, childish act of desperation.”

Bill was very dissatisfied. “Malfoy is not trustworthy,” he insisted. “I don’t think Ginny would be safe married to Draco Malfoy. I have never heard anything about the young man himself to suggest that he would harm her, but he is in the power of someone who would not scruple to do her harm. Lord Malfoy has lost many of his men. I think he intends to use us to defeat his enemies and then throw us away—or even kill us all, Ginny included.” When Percy and Molly gasped, he continued doggedly, “Either he has no intention of letting her survive long enough to marry Draco, or he would kill her after she had borne a new Malfoy heir. I do not believe for one second that he wants us to be part of his family.”

In the corner, the twins, who had been observing the discussion silently, exchanged a glance. Fred spoke up. “Then we should use _him_ and double-cross him first,” he said.

“How?” Bill said impatiently. “And we are not the ones who are cornered in a wizarding war! Riddle was not doing anything to us. His fight was with Malfoy and his allies. We didn’t _need_ to ‘use’ him or anyone else, because we were not fighting! But now, we have named ourselves enemies of his, and for what?”

“He has done some terrible things,” Percy reminded him.

“According to Malfoy!” Bill exclaimed. “We already suspect that he was lying—or wrong—about Riddle being allied with Bellatrix. We also suspect that the story about Riddle attacking guests of his castle is false. And even if the rest of his claims are true, what does that matter to us? If he or one of his allies cursed Malfoy’s eye—if his basilisk ate Lestrange—if he cursed Malfoy’s field in an old ritual—and even if he made a Horcrux, _why do we care?_ The first three would be acts taken in war, and the latter only does harm to himself. What is it to us?”

“Well, it matters to _me,”_ Percy said sanctimoniously. “Virtue matters, even if the one person harmed by a wicked act is oneself.”

“And what is virtuous about aligning with a man who thinks anyone who is not a pureblood barely deserves to live? Lord Malfoy _started_ this war, Percy. He and his allies have been harassing and targeting Lady Hermione since she first made her appearance. All she wanted was to participate in wizarding society as three of the Founders of Hogwarts, the people we named our faction for, intended. _Malfoy_ started everything. I think some of you have forgotten who the enemy is.” With that, he rose from his seat and walked outside to take a breath of fresh air, leaving the others to think.

The family owl, Errol, flew to him and alighted on a nearby branch of a tree. Bill regarded the aged owl before taking out a piece of parchment from his belt pouch and writing a letter. He attached it to the owl and stroked its feathers before sending it on its way.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall._

Lord Orion and Lady Walburga Black had come to Parselhall to witness the formal agreement that Sirius signed with Tom. Sirius was visibly unhappy at the entire situation, but the news that Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom had brought had shocked him.

Then, too, his wife Marlene had a very pertinent piece of news for him when he returned to Parselhall.

“It cannot be more than a fortnight,” she had confided in him, “but I’m certain of it. We have ways of telling much earlier than the Muggles, of course.” She had placed a hand proudly over her belly.

Sirius had sighed. This should be a happy moment, and it was, but it was also heavy with unwanted responsibilities and dire feelings about the future. One of his children would likely be betrothed as a child—much depended on how quickly Lady Hermione had a child herself, and what the sexes of their children were—but a heavy burden now lay on another of Sirius’s future offspring. He had not missed the fact that Dora was very interested in his own friend Remus, and that the interest was returned, albeit with some reluctance on Remus’s part. He knew Remus well enough to know that the reluctance would be overcome eventually. Remus had never been able to stand his ground against him or James. Dora was nominally the heir of the Black family, but Lord Orion would not allow her to remain so if she married a werewolf. That meant that _he_ would have to father the future heir. If the child that Marlene was now carrying did not eventually marry into the Riddle family, he or she would likely be the heir of House Black. His children would be taken away from him and Marlene to be raised as nobles… unless, of course, he gave up his own humble home in Godric’s Hollow and moved in with his blood relatives again. Not his parents, of course—but Regulus. Sirius had a feeling that this was exactly what would happen. It irritated him beyond belief that he had been outmaneuvered and his long-ago decision checkmated.

He pushed these heavy thoughts out of his mind as he signed the document below the many other signatures present: Tom’s, Hermione’s, his own parents’. He pushed it back at them, scowling. “Here you are,” he said icily. “I hope everyone else is satisfied at last.”

Tom accepted the contract. “It’s not _that_ bad, Sirius,” he said wryly.

“You _would_ say that,” Sirius replied. “Well, it is done. Let’s hope you are right that this is for the best.”

* * *

_Castle l’Etrange._

The defenders of the castle readied themselves at sunrise. The plan that they had agreed upon was for those who knew how to cast cursed fire to do it, and to target the animated bodies while they were still a good distance from the castle. Luring Bellatrix and her unnatural soldiers inside, as they had done to Lestrange’s party, was not practical or safe in this situation.

Neville had not wanted to be part of that group, much to Regulus’s relief. Much better that he not see the results of the evil deed that Bellatrix had committed. The people who had this task reached the rooftop of the castle soon after waking up, watchful eyes trained on the horizon.

“I just want to see her,” Adelaide pleaded to Regulus. “Maybe I could talk her out of it.”

Regulus looked at Andromeda, who shook her head sadly. “You were unable to talk her out of anything she has done,” the woman said to her niece. “Your sentiments are honorable and do you credit, but she has made her choice.”

Adelaide’s eyes widened as the realization struck her. “But that means she will die!”

Andromeda steered the distraught girl away, urging her toward a parlor. “Adelaide,” she said gently, “your mother has done terrible things, and she has shown no remorse for it. Instead, she is attacking a castle that she knows full well her own blood holds. We will certainly attempt to capture her, but even if we succeed at that—which we may not—the people who have the right to decide her justice are Neville Longbottom—”

“A _commoner?”_

_“Our ally,”_ Andromeda said, “and our blood. He has that right foremost, but your new betrothed and his brother also have a say, since it is their castle she is attacking. They can be seen as the heirs of your uncle Rabastan, too.” Seeing that this was not persuasive to Adelaide, Andromeda changed course. “She is my sister!” she exclaimed. “This doesn’t make me happy either. I grieve for her. I grieve for what she has become, but that happened years ago, niece. The first time she attacked the Longbottoms, she cursed them so badly that they could not have another child. She attempted to murder Lady Hermione at Hogwarts. It’s a terrible thing, what she has become. If she allows us to capture her, you may certainly go to those she has wronged and ask for mercy for her, but some form of justice must be done at this point.”

Miserably, Adelaide closed her eyes, shutting everything out, before nodding silently.

Andromeda went to the door and quietly summoned a house-elf to bring a bottle of wine and a bottle of Calming Draught. This was going to be hard on Adelaide. For that matter, it was going to be hard on Andromeda herself. She intended to fight, but she might need to have this on hand afterward.

* * *

“Here they are!” announced Burke, who was stationed on the rooftop. Edgar Fawley, again serving as a messenger, quickly hurried down the open trapdoor to carry the information to the people inside. Burke and the others on the roof readied their wands, each one focused on a hunched, yet horribly fast, figure below. Burke shuddered at their glassy, lifeless eyes and ghastly pale skin. Despite a greyish tone, the body of Lord Rabastan was clearly identifiable, and it was apparent that he had not suffered prior to his death. The Longbottoms’ bodies, however, were different. Their skin was vaguely sagging now, particularly around their faces. Burke had not needed to know from Adelaide what had happened to them; the signs of having been brutally tortured by the Cruciatus Curse prior to their deaths were all too apparent. Burke knew this kind of magic too well to doubt it. In his days as a shopkeeper, he had even sold dark, grotesque items made of cursed human body parts, both internal and external.

_The boy doesn’t need to see this,_ he decided at once. Far better to see his parents’ ashes than to have the memory of their bodies like this, controlled by their killer, seared into his mind forever. Burke took a deep breath, summoned his magic, and cast a cursed fireball at the thing that had once been Frank Longbottom.

The flames took the shape of dog heads, biting at the undead bodies with teeth of fire. The thing could not speak; it did not breathe air. It no longer felt pain either. The cursed fire cut through the dead flesh, sizzling and crackling, breaking the foul magic spell that animated it. The body collapsed to the ground as the flames continued to consume it.

Next to Burke, Cygnus Black—a look of utter disgust on his face—had cast the same spell at the body of Alice Longbottom. Her hair blazed like a torch as the corpse fell to the earth. On Burke’s other side, Lord Flint had required two fireballs to hit the thing that had been Rabastan Lestrange, but he had managed it at last. The fireball that had missed, as well as the ones that were reducing the bodies to ash, were rapidly growing into a solid wall of flame that trapped Bellatrix Lestrange before the gates of the castle. Burke turned to the other defenders on the roof and nodded. As one, the three wizards cast spells at the wall of fire to keep it from growing any further.

_This was easy,_ Burke thought in pleasure. Everything about taking this castle had been easy, both the battle against the old lord himself and this defense of it. He liked it that way. The more safety he himself could enjoy while earning acclaim and honor, the better.

Inside the keep, the rest of the group gazed at each other. Regulus, Andromeda, and the Fitz Lestranges were near the back of the group, protected by the other defenders in case Bellatrix tried to use the Killing Curse as soon as they opened the doors. Neville Longbottom was near the head of the group. He had insisted upon that.

The great doors creaked open, revealing a black-robed, utterly furious Bellatrix Lestrange to them. Her dark hair was a frizzy cloud. She glared at them, her wand already drawn.

_“Crucio!”_ she roared, sending the curse at the nearest person, Rob Wilkes. He toppled to the floor and writhed in pain.

“That’s enough!” shouted Lady Wilkes, his mother, in outrage. She flicked her wand. Bellatrix deflected the nonverbal curse with a sneer, but to do that, she had to stop using the Cruciatus Curse. The young wizard rose from the ground unsteadily.

“Bellatrix!” ordered Andromeda from the back. The group parted slightly to let the two sisters see each other. “Your ‘defenders’ are piles of ash on the ground, finally having the dignity in death that you denied them after murdering them! You are alone and vastly outnumbered. Surrender yourself at once.”

Bellatrix did not cast a curse at her sister, but she seemed determined to have her say. “You were prepared for them. That means that this is where my traitorous ingrate of a daughter went,” she sneered. She eyed the two brothers without respect. “I see who you are, half-blood bastard-spawn. The truth is written in your faces. And _this_ is what my daughter wanted her future to be! This is what she betrayed her mother for.”

“On the contrary, Adelaide has pleaded for your life,” Andromeda said coldly. In the crowd, an exclamation of dismay and outrage came from the area where Neville Longbottom was stationed. Andromeda ignored it. “She came to us because she did not want you to kill others of her blood— _your_ blood, and mine! You have lost your mind, Bellatrix. Surrender yourself to us now.”

“There is no honor in surrender,” she sneered. “A pity that my daughter did not see it.”

_“Mother!”_

Andromeda was appalled. What was Adelaide doing outside the parlor? She should have been under the influence of Calming Draught!

Bellatrix gazed at Adelaide with contempt. “Are you happy with the lot that others have decided for you, daughter? Do you like the idea of sleeping with someone whose blood is impure? Can this be the same girl who wanted to know how to get revenge on a half-blood and Mudblood four years ago for invading the halls of Hogwarts? This castle could have been yours alone if you had remained by my side.”

Adelaide gazed back at her mother, unafraid for herself, but clearly terrified for Bellatrix. “I am very content with ‘my lot,’” she said slowly. “And no, you are wrong, Mother. It couldn’t have been just mine. You were never going to win this war all alone. _Please_ do as Aunt Andromeda asks!”

Bellatrix turned aside. “You choose them, then. So be it. Everything I did, I did for _you,_ but you choose _them._ Very well. I no longer have a daughter, then.” With a cry, Bellatrix whirled around, slashing her wand through the air.

A jet of cursed flame erupted, streaming through the air like a flaming rope. It struck Ginny Weasley.

She shrieked in shock and pain as her robes and long red hair blazed. Next to her, Neville roared in fury. He did not think twice. As Adelaide cried out in horror at this final insult and atrocity, as the witches and wizards nearby descended to help Ginny, Neville focused his wrath on Bellatrix.

A violent spell issued from his wand, hitting Bellatrix in the chest.

In that moment, time seemed to slow down. She gaped for a moment. In the next, a rip in her robes appeared, then a thin red line. Drops of blood appeared as the wound widened.

It took no more than half a second for the wound to open to a lethal size, exactly where her major artery would be. A splash of vivid, bright red appeared, splattering everyone in the immediate proximity. The look of horror on Bellatrix’s face as she dropped her wand and fell to the floor, dying, would haunt Neville for the rest of his life—but he did not regret what he had just done, even though Adelaide was screaming in the back, restrained by her aunt, who was attempting to force more Calming Draught down her throat.

Neville gazed upon his handiwork and then shook his head, turning aside. He felt strange. _I suppose this is what it’s like,_ he thought. _It really does do something to you to kill, even if it is not murder._

He turned to Ginny. The others had managed to extinguish the flames, but Ginny’s hair had been shorn and burned away to her ears, and her robes were mostly cinders. Her skin had also been scorched, though they were working on healing that. Still in shock, but aware enough to be embarrassed, Ginny attempted to cover herself.

“Here,” said Lady Greengrass, taking off her own outer robe and handing it to the young girl. Surprised at this generosity from a noblewoman, Ginny accepted it with a brief thanks. She stood unsteadily on her feet and touched the singed tips of her much-shorter hair.

“It will grow back,” Lady Greengrass assured her. “You won’t be able to restore it with magic, since that was cursed flame, but it will still grow naturally.”

Ginny nodded. “It’s all right. It’s just hair, in the end.” She turned to Neville. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” he confessed. He sighed heavily. “Apparently the ashes of my parents are outside… and those of Rabastan Lestrange. I’ll leave that to others, but I should collect theirs.” His voice thickened. “At least I avenged them.”

In the back, Andromeda was pulling Adelaide Lestrange out of the room. She wished that the girl had not seen that. More importantly, she wished she had not _heard_ her mother’s final words—though perhaps, in time, it would be for the best that Adelaide could start over without carrying around any more guilt than necessary.

* * *

That evening, an owl that Ginny recognized arrived at the castle. “Errol!” she exclaimed, giving the bird a treat and taking the letter from it. “This is from Bill.”

 

_Sister,_

_I wanted you to know that you have support in your family. Ron and I—and to some extent, your father—understand why you have done what you did, because we do not trust Lord Malfoy either and respect your own wishes for your life. I think the twins may be persuadable in time as well. I am writing to you to let you know that we are on your side, but also, to ask you if you have learned anything from the Riddles or their allies that would contradict Lord Malfoy’s claims. We believe him to be a liar on several of his accusations and would gladly attempt to persuade Mother and Percy if you have since learned anything that proves him a liar._

_There is something else that you need to know. I did not make my bargain with the goblins willingly. I put myself in their power, far away from home, and foolishly underestimated their magic. It was a very human failing, and proves that even those of us who pride ourselves in being open-minded have prejudices. I hope that they do not attempt to follow through._

_Godspeed to you and Longbottom, Ginny._

_Bill_

 

She sighed and set the letter aside. It certainly merited a reply. She had identified Bill’s skepticism immediately. Nothing in this would suggest that he was doing the bidding of Mother and Percy and trying to trick her. Bill was an honest man.

Ginny took up a quill and began to compose her response, telling him what she had learned and what had just happened that day. Bellatrix’s death would certainly prove Malfoy a liar about her working with Riddle, and Hermione had been the one to identify two other statements as lies.

* * *

_Castle Parsehall._

Tom, Hermione, Severus, and Sirius considered what they had just learned from their letters from Regulus and Neville. It was a good thing that Bellatrix was finally dead, though it sounded as though their allies had their hands full, between continuing to hold Castle l’Etrange and dealing with Adelaide.

“We still need to undermine the Weasleys’ influence on the Muggle king, and _somehow_ kill Malfoy,” Tom pointed out. “And we are no closer to learning what his Horcrux is than we were when this all started.”

Hermione sighed. “He might not have told anyone who is still alive,” she said unhappily. “We may have to just do something to his body that makes it unable to support life.” She grimaced at the thought. “But we _can_ go to the Muggle king. I had an idea of what to say.”

Tom raised his eyebrows in interest.

“Some of Malfoy’s acts, we must keep within the wizarding community,” she said. “It would do no one any good for the Muggle king to know about unicorn blood, or—sorry, Tom—Horcruxes. I don’t think that either he or the Weasleys have told the king about yours, either, for the same reason. We are _all_ better off if powerful Muggles _do not know_ about certain things that magic can do, even the enemies of those who might tell. Muggles like that would regard the very existence of such magic as proof that magic itself was evil. But I think we can tell the king about other things. We can tell him that the person who attacked my parents’ castle was Lord Malfoy himself. He won’t like that at all. We can also tell him about the attack on your castle by Lestrange.”

Tom nodded. “And we should. Are you planning to dirty the Weasleys by association, then?”

She shook her head. “The Weasleys don’t support that… deed.” Her voice became heavy for a moment. “Even the ones who are deceiving themselves about _who_ did it don’t support the act itself. We don’t have to do something that underhanded. What I think we should do is to tell the king about the bargain that they have with the goblins.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed in interest and approval. So did Severus’s.

“King Stephen is a profligate spender,” she said, her words hard and cynical. “His love of riches is well known. I cannot imagine that he would like the idea of magical creatures that are not human making off with gold from English noble houses… and I rather doubt that the Weasleys have told him of _that_ alliance. Based on the letter that we have from Ginny, the brother who lived among the goblins would very much like the deal to be broken off, and I think that if the Muggle king himself says no, that would be sufficient. Goblins may be willing to fight witches and wizards, but are they going to take on Muggles? They would be eradicated if _all the humans in Britain_ took up arms against them, and I dare say they know it.”

Tom was delighted. “I don’t much care about pulling Weasley’s chestnuts out of the fire,” he said, “but I think you’re right about the king. If we tell him that—and tell him the truth about Malfoy, of course—then we could get him to back us. Of course… even if Malfoy did not tell him about my Horcrux, he probably told him _something_ against me. We should be prepared to explain whatever it is—or prove it a lie, if that’s the case.”

Severus was pleased overall, but one thing still nagged at him. “The goblins did have a promise. It wouldn’t matter to them that it was made under duress. They don’t treat contracts with humans the same way that they treat contracts among their own kind. They claim that witches and wizards thieve from them, but most of the time that is because they are not honest with their customers about what they expect to happen after the customer’s death. They may send an envoy demanding _something,_ even if it is not what Weasley promised them.”

“I’ve thought about that too,” Hermione said. “If they make a demand for the return of some of their items, we should ask them to produce a list of artifacts that _did_ have contractual clauses for their return to the goblins after the first buyer died. If it wasn’t in writing, they _cannot_ hold their customer to it. But it’s also possible that some people really did steal from them, and if that’s the case, the goblins have a right to have their own back.” Her face hardened. “And if it turns out that they don’t have as many of those clear cases as they’d like, they should start changing how they conduct business with wizards in the future.”

* * *

_Malfoy Manor._

Lucius’s face was permanently set in a sour expression. Narcissa was bitter and angry, refusing even to share his bedroom anymore. That hurt. Although their marriage had been set up by their families like that of most nobles, they were very fond of each other and always had been. He loved her. It was not _his_ fault that Bellatrix had run away from Godric’s Hollow and acted like a madwoman. It also wasn’t his fault that Grandfather refused to let him even see the Mudblood Lily Potter in the dungeons where she was held.

_He knows why I had her captured,_ Lucius thought bitterly. He scowled at the silver goblet that held Lord Armand’s “tonic,” that accursed mixture of unicorn blood and other ingredients that the old man believed improved his health and mental acuity.

_Do I bear the curse now?_ Lucius wondered morbidly. _I have never slain one of the creatures, fortunately, but it’s only a matter of time before he makes me do it. But I have definitely handled their blood now, and I have mixed this potion. Am I cursed?_

He remembered seeing the pen where his awful grandfather kept the unicorns. He was somehow able to breed them, despite being neither a woman nor a virgin. The creatures were sad and miserable, and Lucius could see the pent-up rage lurking behind the eyes of one of them, a young foal. _It’s just waiting for the opportunity to gore someone with its horn,_ he thought, quickly hurrying away from the site that day.

Lucius stirred the foul silvery potion with a stirring rod, making sure never to touch it under any circumstances.

_Draco is acting very strangely too,_ he thought, recalling his son’s latest letter from Godric’s Hollow. It was evasive and spoke in a very friendly way of the Riddle-Black alliance. Lucius did not blame him for that at this point. _I think he is having a romance with a girl. I hardly care at this point, as long as she is pureblood._

His grandfather’s few remaining house-elves were terrified and cowed, yet loyal in the cowardly, backstabbing way that often appeared among downtrodden people who had no way to escape a tyrannical master. Such people turned against each other, telling tales about each other—or a stunning truth, whenever that “delightful” possibility presented itself—to the master that they all feared and hated. It was the only form of power they knew, and these remaining elves were exactly that sort. Lucius did not trust them.

_At least Grandfather no longer thinks that I was ordering a house-elf to spy on him,_ Lucius thought. After he had discovered one doing just that earlier this year, he had ordered the elf killed and believed that it had been reporting to Lucius. He no longer believed that. What Armand did believe was that it had reported to one of the Blacks—probably Regulus, though it could have been almost any of them at this point—and had been able to visit both Malfoy and Black residences because it technically belonged to Narcissa as much as to Lucius.

The Weasleys were hiding something from their new “ally.” Lucius and Narcissa—and, unfortunately, Armand himself—all believed that it was that the Weasley girl had run off. If she had gone to some property held by the Riddle-Black alliance, she might even be wed to Longbottom by now. Secretly, Lucius hoped that she was—and that he was correct about Draco. If both members of the would-be couple presented spouses of their own, that ought to be the end of it. Even Armand Malfoy, kinslayer and filicide, would surely not kill the only Malfoy who could carry on the line.

_Unless he killed Narcissa and forced me to take a younger wife,_ Lucius thought suddenly, tasting bile in his throat. He would not put that past his grandfather for a second. Women were nothing to him except breeding vessels, and Narcissa was a Black.

Lucius finished stirring the accursed potion and picked up the opal-studded silver goblet. Beneath his hands, the object tingled with magical power. Lucius scowled at the sensation. Ever since he and Narcissa had come here, Armand had insisted upon drinking his evil potion from _this_ cup exclusively, for Merlin knew what awful reason. He claimed that he thought the potion would be more potent in this goblet, and Lucius did not care to know why. He found that his thoughts were darkened and soured whenever he handled the thing. If this continued, he would start wearing gloves. _That is not a bad idea anyway,_ he thought. _Anything to provide an extra layer of protection from its contents._

Gingerly he picked up the goblet and carried it into the adjacent room where Armand awaited him.


	55. The Missing Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, one more chapter and the epilogue!
> 
> Over the course of this story, a number of people have been interested in seeing some unique magic. I hope this chapter somewhat makes up for the fact that I tend to focus on plotting. There is definitely unique magic here.

_Malfoy Manor._

Narcissa’s eyes were wide with fury and frustration. “You think _what?”_ she hissed at Lucius.

Lucius cast a spell quickly to be certain that the room was sealed against the outside. If his grandfather heard this…. Fortunately, the spell detected nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. “I think Draco is carrying on a… flirtation,” he said.

Narcissa’s nostrils flared. “With _whom?”_ she demanded. “It had better not be one of those peasants in Godric’s Hollow!”

As it happened, Lucius had actually formed an idea. “No worries, my dear—at least on that score. I actually think it is the younger Greengrass daughter.”

Narcissa sat down in a chair and stretched her arms over the arms of the chair, looking very imperious as her wide sleeves draped over the armrests. “What makes you say that?”

“Intuition. During his betrothal to his cousin Lestrange, she complained about that young lady all the time.”

“That family is allied with the Black-Riddle faction,” Narcissa said. “Her older sister is betrothed to one of Riddle’s other allies’ sons. Were it anyone else—anyone noble, at least—Draco presumably would not have a reason to keep that secret from _us.”_

Lucius nodded. “Precisely.”

“But that means that he thinks we are on your grandfather’s side!” she exclaimed. “He thinks we support this ‘alliance’ that your grandfather has made with the Weasley family! Otherwise he would tell us her name.” She rose from the chair in agitation. “We must act, Lucius. This has gone on long enough. He has forced you to handle that—that _blood.”_

“I have never touched the blood itself,” Lucius said, “but I do not know how the curse works. I have certainly acted as an accomplice to the consumption of unicorn blood, albeit under orders… but since it is not the Imperius Curse or something like that—since I _am_ acting of my own accord—it may have taken effect anyway.”

Narcissa sighed. “You have not drunk it, nor have you slain one of the creatures or harvested the blood. If you are cursed, surely it is not with the full, unbreakable one.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Your grandfather has no right to force others to risk that. And you think it is even possible that he will kill Draco and me.”

“I would not put it past him,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “He murdered his own son. If he gives up on the idea of marrying Draco to the Weasley girl, he might decide that it is time for a new Malfoy heir. If Draco decides to elope, that could be the trigger for him—and we will not know about it in advance. We will have no way to prepare.”

“Then you know what must be done. I am at a loss as to why you haven’t done it already.”

Lucius held out his hands, open and empty. “But I don’t! I know what I would _like_ to do, but I have no idea what the artifact is!”

Narcissa shook her head in amazement and regarded him as tolerantly as she could manage. “You don’t? Truly, you have no idea?”

Lucius opened his mouth to repeat his assertion of ignorance, but he shut it at once as the truth hit him.

* * *

_Castle Parselhall._

Hermione set another book atop the stack that had accumulated to her right. She picked up the next one from the left stack and opened it.

She was fascinated with the Athame of Morgana. Although she was aware in the back of her mind that she should think about defeating Armand Malfoy and persuading the king to abandon his current magical allies, she could not let go of this.

Harry had not been happy about it. _“You’re going to do what?”_ he had exclaimed that morning when she stated her intentions of doing magical and historical research into the subject. _“My mother is still a captive in Malfoy Manor—if she is even alive anymore!”_

Hermione had felt terrible about it, but if Harry’s mother was alive, she was locked in Armand Malfoy’s dungeons, most likely. There was nothing they could do about that until Malfoy himself was killed, and Hermione felt strongly that the athame of Morgana had some relation to accomplishing that. It made little sense to her, but she had given up. Her reason told her that it was a distraction, an insignificant matter, but her intuition—the same part of her that could detect magic in the air—said otherwise.

_What kind of curse would not affect the wielders of an object?_ she mused as she skimmed through the book. _Why would any witch or wizard curse a magical blade to remove its magic? Though I suppose it is not actually removed,_ she thought. _It is suppressed. Why? By whom? And how can this curse be lifted?_

Hermione sighed and continued her reading. She had taken every book about Celtic and Old English magic that she could find in the Riddle library, but so far, she had examined half of them, and they had contained no information about this. The very existence of a magical blade that had belonged to Morgana le Fay seemed to be a complete secret, and the books contained no information about a curse that would suppress magic from a charmed object. It did not seem to be something that wizards and witches had considered doing. If they wanted to remove an enchantment, they would just do that. That made rational sense to Hermione, but it was still frustrating. _Someone_ had certainly cursed this blade long ago.

As the hours grew late, Hermione leaned back in her chair in frustration and defeat. There was nothing. Whoever had done this was long dead, and if they had made a record of their magic and the reasons for it, it had not survived the ages. Unbidden, Hermione’s thoughts drifted to the dark altar in the vault, where the basilisk slept in a magical repose. _I wish, in a way, that Ceridwyn’s grandson had not banished her ghost through the Veil. She placed the blade in the sea cave. She might have known what was done to it and why._

Hermione sighed deeply again. The Celtic day of the dead, Samhain, supposedly was the day when the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was thinnest. However, that day was several months away—and the ritual to open that door involved blood sacrifice. Hermione was not particularly inclined to do that. _Tom_ might, she thought, but she did not want him to dabble with any more of that kind of magic.

She picked up the last book in her stack and began to skim its chapters. It was a translation of a much more ancient codex, which Hermione wished still existed—but the translator had made a note that the original document was falling apart and could not be preserved. She hoped that this translation was accurate.

Half an hour later, her eyes were wide in surprise. _This_ was something that she could do. She could even involve Tom. In fact, she felt that she was morally obligated to tell him, since it was a magical ritual that involved something of his.

_If it works, it might be good for him,_ she thought. _This might be exactly what he needs to make sure that he does not follow any further along a dark path._ The thought crossed her mind that it might also have the opposite effect, but she was willing to risk it.

* * *

“This is what I found,” Hermione said to Tom a bit later after she had located him and ushered him into her reading space. She sat down and opened the book to the place she had marked, paraphrasing from its text. “There is a ritual to open a gateway to the Otherworld at any time of the year, not just Samhain—in fact, it recommends _against_ using it on Samhain, because that could create a door that is too wide and porous to control.”

Tom smirked. “Though unleashing spirits on the world would, I suppose, be one way to deal with our enemies. Perhaps not the wisest, though.”

“Perhaps not,” Hermione agreed. “The history section says that the ancient Celts—yes, Tom,” she said with a smile as he looked up sharply in interest, “the ancient Celts created this ritual after the Roman Empire brought certain Greek magic to their culture. Yes, Tom,” she said again as his eyes lit up. “It’s what you think. The ritual requires a Horcrux, which I suppose is why Ceridwyn’s grandson did not use it, but instead waited until Samhain to banish her ghost through the traditional means. A Horcrux can open that door with this ritual because a part of it—the _crucial_ part, you might say—is not of earth, but instead, is of the stuff of the other side. The fragment of soul provides that link.”

“My people were masters of spirit magic,” Tom said proudly. “They understood it in a way that no one in these islands since then has done. Leave it to them to develop such an advance to something that others exported to them. Since their decline, there has been so little advancement in the area, I suppose to avoid offending the Muggle churches, but I suspect it has also been suppressed and forgotten because the peoples that invaded these islands after the Celts did not have as much interest in the subject in the first place.”

She smiled. “Well, it has not been lost to _us._ The question remains as to whether you want to try it.”

Tom considered what Hermione had just described to him. He stared straight ahead in his chair, thinking hard, before finally turning to her. “You are certain that it doesn’t harm the item?”

“That is what the book says. It is not a curse against the Horcrux. It just takes advantage of one of its properties. However, if you are worried, you have the right to say no. Your soul is more important than my curiosity about this athame.”

“I trust your intuition about the blade,” he said. “I detect magic too, but I cannot use it. When I first picked it up in that cave, I felt—odd.” He frowned. “I almost felt as though I should not even _handle_ it. At the time, I assumed that was merely my own conscience, telling me that this blade was to go to you because it symbolized letting go of a goal that could have destroyed me—and _had_ destroyed our relationship—but I wonder now if it had some connection to this curse.”

“Do you think it could have to do with the bloodline of Ceridwyn?”

“It might,” he said. “You don’t feel anything like what I described?”

“No,” she said. “If anything, I’ve felt the opposite.” She grinned. “I have felt as if this blade compelled me to research _this,_ even though we are at war!”

Tom chuckled. “Well,” he said, “there you have it, then. I trust magical intuition. This is a mystery we should solve. We can do this ritual, and according to that book, it will do no lasting harm as long as the soul that we seek does not escape back through and become a ghost.”

“She might,” Hermione said darkly. “She was certainly reluctant to leave in her lifetime—and her ghostly life.”

“Then I will awaken the basilisk,” he said darkly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. _“Can_ a basilisk harm a ghost?”

“I think it can send one unconscious. With any luck, she will have been on the other side long enough that she has let go of some of her anger, and she won’t try anything. If she placed the blade in the cave because of its curse, she should be willing to help us lift it.” He pulled the book describing the ritual of interest close and examined it once again. “The theory makes sense. All right. Let’s do it.”

Gathering up the book and the locket of Slytherin, they made their way slowly down the tunnel to the vast, darkened vault. Hermione shuddered at the sight of the sleeping basilisk.

“It won’t awaken until it is told to,” Tom said in a low voice.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. They reached the arched doorway leading to the round room with the ancient, blood-splattered altar and the carved images of Celtic deities. Tom gazed at the doorway for a moment; then he cast a spell to create a shimmering, translucent barrier between them and the main vault containing the dragon skeleton and the basilisk.

“Nothing will get through that,” he said, “and the basilisk _won’t_ awaken, but if it did, that barrier would protect you from death.” He turned to the altar and gave a shudder at the sight of the bloodstains. “No more blood will be shed at this place today,” he muttered. He withdrew the locket from his neck and hissed at it, causing it to open with a click. Two eyes blinked back at him from each side.

Hermione opened the book on the altar and raised her wand. Together, they began to cast the ritual in Gaelic. The locket began to glow white.

A white light resembling a bolt of lightning shot up from the open Horcrux. Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight, but she did not stop casting the spell. It was a long ritual, with several parts, not a simple spell of one or two words.

The crackling line of white light widened for a fraction of a second, then—with a pop that sounded exactly like a thunderclap—rent the air apart.

It was as though a new room had suddenly appeared between the curving walls of the chamber, a room bounded by piercingly glowing outlines of white, a room of marble arches and stone urns, a broad space with a vaulted ceiling. The contrast of the dim chamber of the vault of Parselhall and the brilliant illumination of this new chamber was striking.

Tom and Hermione exchanged shocked looks. “That’s… it,” Hermione whispered in awe. “That’s actually—we’re really looking at—I can’t believe it—” Her lower lip trembled. “I wonder if I could speak to my parents,” she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes.

Tom gazed sympathetically at her. “Do you want to?”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily. “We have a task to do. That must come first.”

Tom reached out with one hand and cupped her cheek gently.

_“I summon the spirit of Ceridwyn, daughter of Mordred,”_ Tom intoned into the shimmering white marble room.

There was a pause. In the next moment, a female voice, hard and cold as stone, responded. _“No one has spoken to me since I was forced here. Who troubles me now?”_

Tom’s eyes widened. He took a deep breath. “Your descendant. I wish to speak to you about the athame of your grandmother, Morgana.”

Another pause, then the cold voice replied. _“You have retrieved it? But if you are my blood, you cannot be the one prophesied. Do not trouble me further. Better to be alone and ignored, erased from the legends, one’s existence on earth forgotten, than harassed and deceived.”_

Hermione and Tom were shocked at the bitterness of Ceridwyn’s voice. “No one wishes to harass or deceive you,” Tom said. “We would like to talk to you about the athame. I retrieved it, but my wife—who is not of our blood—wields it. She discovered the curse it bears.”

Ceridwyn hesitated. They could not see her in the open magical door, but they could sense that she was hesitating. Finally she spoke. _“You cannot see me until you enter. What holds the door open for you? Is it the day of thin barriers? If you pass through this doorway on Samhain and do not return before the day ends, you may not be able to go back.”_

“No,” Tom said. “It is not Samhain. The ‘door’ is held open by… a part of a soul.”

_“Ah,”_ said the voice, and Tom and Hermione detected a strong strain of hostile, bitter spite. _“Yours, descendant? In that case, I hope your children are not in the vicinity. They may destroy it if they are, which is what my son did to me.”_

“We have no children,” Tom said firmly. “We will pass through.”

He took Hermione’s hand. They gazed at each other meaningfully, and together, they stepped through the magical door.

* * *

A flash of light almost blinded Hermione. She closed her eyes to shield them, then, when it dimmed to what seemed to be a more reasonable level, opened them again.

It was as though reality had reversed itself. The gleaming magical door remained, but now, the world that was visible through it was the room in Parselhall. Hermione gazed around. She was in the white marble hall. Above her, a sunless but still incredibly bright light shined down. Her own body was the same and yet different. The tiredness that she had felt ever since suffering the curse in the attack on Parselhall was gone. Her skin seemed to glow as if it had a light illuminating her whole body just below the surface. She glanced at Tom, who was examining his body with the same look of surprise.

He was not perfect, though, she noticed with sudden unhappiness. Whereas she had no visible wounds, Tom did. His arms had red scratch marks, and another, more prominent scratch mark was visible on his neck, a mark that appeared to continue down his chest. He fingered this mark with a frown on his face. “Tom,” she said quietly, moving close to him and taking his hands in hers. She met his eyes. “It will be all right.”

He sighed heavily. “It won’t be all right until the very end. I can’t fix this until then.”

She covered his palms in her hands. “But that’s when it counts most.”

A figure appeared from behind a column and began to walk toward them, her footfalls making no sound. She was dressed in green and black, and her auburn hair was braided regally in the back of her head. Piercing green eyes glared at Tom and Hermione. As she drew closer, they noticed that she too was heavily scarred. She was beautiful, but her face was angry, bitter, and cold.

“You wished to speak to me,” said Tom’s royal ancestor. “I confess… I was prepared to hate you for disturbing my solitude, but it has been so long since anyone even noticed me. I suppose I am glad of your company, however temporary it may be.”

Tom and Hermione drew closer to each other protectively. “Why has no one noticed you?” Tom asked.

“Most pass through this place very quickly,” said Ceridwyn, “and also, you are not noticed here if no one here wants to speak to you.”

“And no one has in six centuries? That’s… terribly sad,” Hermione said.

“It has been six centuries? I have no sense of time here. Perhaps outside this room… but I cannot seem to find my way out. I know not what doors all the others who pass through use. I can never see them.” She gazed at the rift that Hermione and Tom had opened, her green eyes flashing greedily.

“That is not the answer,” Hermione said at once. “Perhaps you cannot see the doors here because you are not ready to… move on.”

Ceridwyn sneered back at Hermione, choosing not to respond to that. “Others certainly seem eager to move on. They do not notice me at all. To those who still remember my existence—essentially, just the family into which you married, witch—I am a symbol. They have had nothing to say to me because they thought they understood everything about my life,” she sneered. “Most others do not remember that I ever lived.”

Tom was chastened. For so long, he was exactly like that. He had seen her as a symbol of royalty and power lost, of betrayal and abandonment by her own allies, of hope kept alive, of a bloodline that still flowed—and then, after he had heard the story of her dragon and her years after the sea cave, a symbol of a fall into darkness that he himself must avoid.

“We wished to see you,” Tom managed to say. “We knew that we did not know or understand everything about your life—and I think we realize now that we understood even less, now that we see you.” He sighed. “I retrieved the Athame of Morgana from the cave in which you placed it. I gave it to my wife, and she has detected a curse on it.”

“Well, is she not a smart witch?” Ceridwyn said nastily. “I suppose you expect me to tell you all about that, just because you ask.”

Tom glowered. Hermione placed a hand on his arm and faced the spirit. “It would be kind of you,” she agreed, “but you are right to want a reason. In the country that you loved, people of magic are under a terrible threat—but my husband and I are on the verge of removing it and restoring your ancient line to power. Not the throne,” she said, “but the high seat of witches and wizards, perhaps. We think the Athame of Morgana is relevant.”

Ceridwyn paused, and for the first time in the conversation, the hostility on her face gave way to something else: pride and hope. “The ancient line,” she murmured. She gazed at Tom. “You have some things in common with my father, I see. You too are the son of a witch and a man without magic.”

“They weren’t brother and sister, though,” Tom retorted.

Ceridwyn finally managed the ghost of a smirk. “Such things do not matter here. Family is… not blood… and I seem to have family no longer. But very well. I would see the line restored to power if it is now time.”

“And you can help us do that,” Hermione said. “It _is_ time, and you have a final part to play yet. Just, please, tell us what we need to know about your grandmother’s athame.”

“I remained on earth for so long, tethering myself there, because I hoped to see that during my lifetime,” she mused. “It did not happen. Perhaps now….” She gazed at the pair again. “Very well. My grandmother Morgana imbued the blade with her most powerful magic. She expected to rule beside Arthur, but his advisor… had other ideas.”

“Yes, I know about Merlin’s ideas,” Tom said darkly. “His principal ‘idea’ was that no one with magic should hold power—except for himself, of course.”

“Merlin did not separate them because she was a witch,” said Ceridwyn. “It is because she was his half-sister.”

Tom was silent, contemplating that. This was an overthrow of much that he had believed….

“The blade confers the Wisdom of the Ruler upon its wielder, but this power was lost to me from the time of the last battle. I placed that blade in the sea cave for a reason: My mother, who was a Seer in life, made a prophecy to me.”

Tom’s attention was fixed upon the spirit of his ancestor. “The books still tell of that,” he said. “It was that the finder of the blade would restore the line!”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled darkly. “That is what the books say now? That is wrong too. The truth has been lost over these… six centuries… so it would appear.”

Tom was surprised. “But….”

“The prophecy,” she said darkly, “was that my father would murder my grandfather Arthur in the Battle of Camlann, killing him dishonorably, and that because of this betrayal, the blood of Igraine would be cursed. None of this blood could wield this blade for as long as it held the curse.”

Tom was appalled. “He _did_ betray Arthur?”

“He did. I have never spoken to him since my death, of course. He had already… passed through. Perhaps he and Arthur have come to an accord. I do not know.”

Tom was crushed. “The Wisdom of the Ruler, you say? But if that is denied to us, that would mean….” He trailed off in dismay and disappointment.

“It is denied to you as long as the blade bears the curse,” she said again. “However, one who is _not_ of the blood of Igraine can lift the curse.” She turned pointedly to Hermione.

“So all the years of practicing incest… were counterproductive,” Tom muttered.

“If that is what the family did, then yes,” said the spirit. “The curse can be lifted if one who is not the blood of Igraine wields it against the ‘foe of our people.’ The Wisdom of the Ruler will appear again, which must be how the true prophecy became distorted in your histories.”

Hermione and Tom turned to each other, gaping in shock. It was perfectly obvious what this meant… what had to happen….

“I wished for my husband to break the curse in my lifetime,” said Ceridwyn. Her eyes softened for a moment. “I believed that the foe of our people was Arthur’s cousin, who succeeded him. I believed that any of the blood of Pendragon who did not also have the blood of Igraine must be the foe. My husband did not do it, though.”

“It wasn’t time,” Hermione said softly. “The ‘foe of our people’ rules today. He is destroying the culture of witches and wizards to protect himself. We have suffered in a way that you did not.”

The spirit glared harshly at her. “That is easy for you to say. I lost everything. I had never lived as a princess, since my father had already been dispossessed, but I lost _hope._ I know that not all prophecies come true, and I was certain that my husband was causing my mother’s to fail. I lost hope, and when one has lost hope, one has nothing.” She stared ahead. “He did not wish to see me when I died and came here.”

“You _killed_ him,” Tom pointed out, “and apparently did not regret that. Even if he forgave you, why would he speak to you if you were not ready to talk?”

“Hold your tongue.”

He stepped forward, eyes blazing. “No, I will not. As it happens, I know something of that. I didn’t kill the person I loved”—he squeezed Hermione’s hand—“but I wronged her. She tried to talk reason into me, but I could not hear her until I saw for myself what I had done and regretted it.” He gazed at his ancestor. “Perhaps, Your Highness, _you_ are the one who cannot see anyone. Perhaps they have always been able to see you, but you have been the blind one.”

“I can see the two of you.”

“We haven’t died. We do not belong here. It could be that.”

“Think about it,” Hermione urged. “They are outside this room, you know. They are waiting for you. Perhaps once you are ready, you will find a door. And know that you _have_ helped us—that your knowledge will be, perhaps, one of the final pieces.” She hesitated before finally blurting out, “And when you have moved on, please find my parents and tell them.”

The spirit’s eyes widened, but she had nothing more to say. She seemed to be contemplating Tom and Hermione’s words at last.

Tom turned to Hermione. “We should go,” he said. He gave a final, parting nod to his ancestor, before stepping through the rift with Hermione once again.

* * *

They instantly felt physical pain behind their eyes as their pupils dilated sharply to adjust to the sudden change to a dim room. Hermione wanted to cry as the fatigue and weakness of the magical injury overcame her physical body once again. Tom’s visible scratches and scars vanished as he stepped through, however.

Tom stumbled to the altar and propped himself up over the open book. Hermione took his hand and picked up her wand again with her other hand. Together they spoke the words that would complete the ritual. Before them, the bright patch that revealed the white marble room narrowed and closed. Another thunderclap shattered the air as the white light disappeared. On the altar, the glow surrounding the locket faded away.

Tom breathed deeply. He gazed at the open locket. Two dark eyes blinked back at him. The Horcrux was safe. It had taken no harm.

He pulled Hermione close and rested his cheek on top of her head, holding her in his arms. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired, and he was not sure he could do any more magic for at least several hours. That had taken a lot out of him.

They slid to the floor, holding each other, saying nothing. Nothing had to be said aloud. There was too much to contemplate.

* * *

Late that night, Tom finally was able to talk to Hermione about the experience.

“I hope she can let go of her grudges,” he said, gazing ahead into the dark. “Six hundred years, unable to move on… though at least she said it did not seem like that. Still, though.”

“The athame was cursed due to treachery,” Hermione murmured, “and she wanted it lifted so much that she destroyed her family over that. That’s…” She nestled closer to Tom for comfort. “I hope she finally finds peace too. I have hope that she will.”

“I believed for so long that Merlin was a blood-traitor and a hypocrite, a wizard who wanted to disempower wizards and witches—perhaps especially witches, since Morgana was his adversary—but who liked having the ear of a king himself.” He paused, thinking. “He actually just wanted to discourage incest… and really did see betrayal in Mordred. Though I do think Arthur should have made him his heir,” he added harshly, “and perhaps that would have prevented what happened. But anyway, since the Gaunts continued to have incestuous marriages for centuries… Ceridwyn’s own grandchildren were the next brother-sister pair… of course they would believe the false history rather than accept the truth.” He pulled her close. “I was not raised to think incest was acceptable, but I _do_ have contempt for witches and wizards who harm their own kind, so I was ready to think ill of Merlin for my own reasons. We all believe exactly what we want to believe, it seems.”

Hermione let that comment linger in the air for a few moments before speaking again. “I suppose this means that I have to use that blade on Armand Malfoy to lift the curse.”

“So it seems,” Tom agreed. “We can pin him down with spells, but I think you’ll have to use that athame to actually take his life. There is something poetic, I suppose, about Armand Malfoy being killed at last by a non-magical method.”

Hermione could see his point, but the idea of plunging a knife into someone’s heart—or cutting his throat—was unappealing. _Still,_ she supposed, _is it any worse than killing someone with a spell?_

“It’s also poetic that _I_ should be the one to do it at last,” she finally said.

“That is very true. If you do, though, I want to take out the Horcrux—if we can get it.”

“If we can get it, you may do as you like with it,” she said complacently. “I just hope we can get it.”

* * *

Hermione and Tom were awakened very late that night by the sound of Severus pounding on their bedroom door. Tom glowered as he was pulled out of sleep and then had to pull himself away from Hermione’s warm body. Hermione groaned as she woke up.

“Put on some robes as quickly as you can!” Severus exclaimed through the door. “We have guests that you must talk with as soon as possible!”

_Could it be?_ Tom wondered, a thought darting through his mind. He dared not hope… but who else would be important enough—and their business urgent enough—for their presence to warrant waking up the whole family after they showed up at Parselhall in the dead of night?

They threw some suitable outer robes over their sleep robes and belted them, then quickly smoothed their hair in the mirror, before leaving the bedchamber and heading to the great hall with Severus, who had waited outside the entire time. Tom flicked his wand to open the doors and strode in, his dark eyes rapidly scanning the large room.

Cowering in the shadows in a corner were six figures. Tom and Hermione squinted to make out who they were, but as they approached the small group, their faces broke into shocked looks.

“Draco Malfoy!” exclaimed Tom as he goggled at his former schoolmate.

Draco stood defiantly next to a young witch whom they also recognized. This was Astoria Greengrass. He was holding hands with her. Beside her, an older woman met their eyes: Lady Greengrass.

And next to Draco stood Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa Malfoy. Lucius was holding a sack with something inside. He looked frightened but determined.

“My lord,” he said to Tom, “we apologize for disturbing your rest, but since my lady wife and I have been forced to wait on my grandfather, we have been living at Malfoy Manor, and therefore nighttime is the only time that we could have done this.”

Tom nodded. “I understand.”

Lucius gestured to the sixth person, a thin, sick-looking witch with red hair that had been cut short. “I do not know if you have met, but this is Lily Potter, the mother of your former schoolmate. She has been kept in my grandfather’s dungeon. I managed to break her out, because I expect he would have killed her tomorrow once he sees… well.” He broke off abruptly. “Potter, the young one, is your friend. I presumed he wouldn’t care for that.”

“You don’t say,” drawled Tom. He nodded to Lily, whose green eyes were hollow and haunted. “You are most welcome here. Your son is safe. He is actually _here,_ if you would like to see him tonight.”

Lily shook her head. “I thank your lordship… but no. Let him sleep.”

Tom snapped his fingers, summoning a house-elf. “Take Mistress Potter to a guest room near her son,” he instructed the elf, “and provide food and water for her. She needs nourishment and rest.”

“Yes, your lordship,” squeaked the elf, taking Lily by the hand and scurrying away with her.

Tom then glanced at Draco and Astoria. “You seek my permission for their match, because the Greengrasses are allied with us?”

“To be honest, I think they are determined on this either way,” Lucius remarked.

“We are,” Draco said tautly. “I hope I don’t need Riddle’s permission to get engaged if _you_ approve of it, Father.”

“Be respectful,” Lucius chastised him. “We are guests in their home.” He turned to Tom. “But I _would_ hope that it has your blessing… or at least, that it will after I offer you something.” He held out the sack. “I advise you to handle this carefully, with warded gloves or warded fabric to shield your hands from it. It is something that my lady wife in particular wanted out of Malfoy Manor and in your hands.”

Tom accepted the sack, his heart thumping rapidly. He took it to a nearby table and carefully slid the sack down, revealing the opal-studded silver goblet.

_“Oh!”_ Hermione exclaimed in a hushed breath. “That’s—I don’t believe it—but I can _tell._ It’s very magical… and the magic is similar to yours,” she added in a low voice, almost a whisper, that only Tom could hear.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “I hope that’s all that is similar.”

She patted his arm. “It is. I sense malice from this one. The worst that I ever sense from yours is possessiveness.”

“Well, that’s no bad thing,” he remarked with a grin. He stared at the goblet for another moment, then turned back to Lucius and Narcissa.

“You recognize that for what it is, then,” Narcissa said.

“Yes,” Tom said, “and I thank you for bringing it here. But… why did you? I have to confess, I do not understand why you did not destroy this yourself, since you know what it is too.”

“It is a proof of our good faith,” she replied. “We certainly could have, but quite frankly, Lord Thomas, we do not want you to consider us your enemies… because we are not. But we were not certain what you would think if we destroyed that and then informed you of it.”

Tom was gazing into their eyes, using Legilimency on them to be certain that this was not a trick. He did not _think_ that Armand Malfoy would let anyone make off with his Horcrux even as bait for a trap, but he wanted to be sure. As he examined their surface thoughts, he saw no signs of deceit. They were, in fact, extremely angry with Armand. Lucius was being forced to make the unicorn blood tonic, and they all felt that Narcissa and Draco were possibly at risk of being killed. _Self-interest and self-preservation, then,_ Tom thought in satisfaction. _Not the highest of motivations, but arguably one of the most reliable, in its own way. All one has to do to work with people like this is not make oneself their personal enemy._

Hermione understood the political subtext of this. “Then you understand, as well, what we wish to achieve in this war? And you won’t stand in our way?”

“I understood—I assumed—that you wished to reinstate the Wizengamot,” Lucius said, “and that if you meant to keep the position of High Lord of Wizards and Witches, that you yourself would occupy it.”

Tom gave him a hard look. “You are correct. We definitely intend to reinstate the Wizengamot, and we are considering whether we should have a High Lord at all. But if we do, then yes, it will belong to my House. That is settled with our loyal allies the Blacks.” His tone brooked no opposition from Lucius.

“I have heard of an agreement between you and the Blacks for your future children,” Narcissa said in shrewd tones.

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “It is for a child of Sirius Black and our heir. The terms of our alliance and what we will do after the war are settled. If you are offering _that_ item as evidence that you don’t intend to challenge this after Lord Malfoy’s death, then I accept it.”

“That is the offer we make,” said Lucius. “All _we_ ask is that we will be allowed to keep Malfoy Manor and Wiltshire.”

“You are not making a claim on Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione said, surprised, as she glanced at Draco. Was he not living there?

“Potter’s son fights for you,” said Lucius. “I assumed you would give that castle to him as a reward… and besides, Malfoy Manor is the estate that our family established. It is the Malfoy family seat. The castle in Godric’s Hollow was built for Gryffindor, and since my family came to this land, we have used it as a temporary lordship for the heir-in-waiting. Malfoy Manor has always been the highest seat for us.”

Hermione and Tom had _not_ thought about Castle Draconis—formerly, and perhaps once again soon, Castle Leo—but they were not about to tell Lucius that. “It is true that the line of Gryffindor has no direct heirs,” Hermione said, “and that the Potter family used to serve him, before Gryffindor was killed. You intend for Draco to live with you once again in Malfoy Manor, then?”

Lucius nodded. “It is our family home.”

“Well,” Tom said, surprised, “I am very glad that we are settling this without a fight. It feels rather strange to me lately. We have had foes to defeat and allies who fight beside us to treat with. This is… a change of pace.”

“But a pleasant one, I trust?”

“Very pleasant,” Tom said, gazing at the Horcrux on the table. “Very pleasant indeed. And I thank you. Of course, you may all take shelter here. Lord Armand would obviously murder you at once if you were present when he sees that that is gone.” He stared at Lucius and Narcissa in turn, then glanced at Draco. “One other thing. He is an intelligent man and is likely to guess at once what you have done. He will be at our doorstep tomorrow, I’ve no doubt… but I will also warn those who are at Castle l’Etrange. When he makes his appearance, you have two choices. He is your grandfather, so I do not insist that you fight by our side, but if you do not, you will be out of the fray.”

They nodded in assent. “I have no intention of betraying you,” said Lucius. “Please, believe us. We are not like the others that you have been fighting.”

Tom stared into his eyes for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

“And I accept yours.” Lucius extended his hand for Tom to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally intending to return to the whole Arthur-Morgana-Mordred drama, or to answer any of the characters' questions about the "dueling histories" definitively, but the story had other plans for me. In my original outline, Tom was going to see Merope, and he was going to sacrifice an enemy to do so. I also planned originally for Hermione to discover the history of the athame by reading. However, Merope ended up surviving after all, and I came to realize that it didn't make much sense for a false narrative of the athame's significance (and prophecy) to have been passed down in this family if a true account existed somewhere in writing all along. Hence my conclusion that they had to get the facts out of a primary source... and in that case, it would be hard to avoid also discussing the "real" Arthurian lore.
> 
> The final "regular" chapter is likely very predictable now, but I hope it is still satisfying to you when it comes!


	56. The High Seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the main plot, but stay tuned for the epilogue. The couple moments I promised - and some family moments - will show up in it.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has supported this story over the past year!

Tom emerged from the dungeons of Parselhall, a determined look on his face and a vial of poison in his hand. He nodded to Harry and Lily, who were standing in the hall and talking quietly after a night of sleep. He scowled at the open door of the parlor where the Malfoys and Astoria Greengrass were conversing with Severus. _They are allies, of a sort,_ he thought, _and they did bring Armand’s Horcrux, but I will always have to keep an eye on them. Not only Lord Lucius, but also Lady Narcissa—perhaps even more so, in fact._ Tom continued through the hall until he reached Hermione’s favorite room: the library.

She was _not_ reading a book, curiously enough, but was instead standing by a window, clearly lost in thought. Tom approached her.

“Tom,” she said, turning to face him. Her expression was worried.

He embraced her briefly, feeling some of the tension in her body dissipate at his touch. “It ends today,” he said, stroking her hair. “I do think Malfoy is going to come, and it will end when he does.”

She did not smile. “He knows that they have stolen his Horcrux, and he also knows that you know all about Horcruxes. He will assume that we have destroyed it. I just cannot believe that he would come alone. What’s to say that he would not bring a surprise of some kind—a deadly creature, an ally we never knew about, wizards enslaved under the Imperius Curse….”

“I have considered the possibility that he may have done that to the Weasleys,” Tom said, “and if so, I will certainly try not to kill them.”

“And what’s to say that he wouldn’t create a new Horcrux as soon as he discovers that the chalice is missing? He has certainly killed enough people to do that!”

Tom’s eyes popped. “That’s… unheard of,” he said, his face curdling in shock and horror at the idea. “Everything I have read speaks of how dangerous and consequential it is to create just _one.”_

“Malfoy has been drinking unicorn blood. He seems to believe that he is immune to danger.”

“Hermione,” Tom said patiently, “suppose that he has done this. What is your answer? What can we do about it now?”

She was silent.

“I have given some thought to the destruction of the one we have,” he said, changing the subject. “Cursed fire works, but as our allies reported from the… _second_ battle of Castle l’Etrange, against Bellatrix Lestrange, it is dangerous and can rapidly get out of control. I’m not prepared to risk it. On the other hand, a weapon that has been treated with basilisk venom will also do the job.”

Hermione smiled at last. “If you don’t mind—and think it would work—I would like to use the Athame of Morgana.”

“I had the same idea,” he said, “and I do think it will work. The blade is cursed, but that curse just suppresses spells. It won’t affect a poison added later. The blade is not goblin-made, but it _is_ druid-made.”

Hermione instantly understood him. The druids had known how to apply the four elements to blades and arrows, and this was part of the process of crafting itself rather than a spell applied later. The curse of Mordred’s betrayal would not affect it. The material of a druid-made weapon itself was partially elemental, and therefore, unlike metal, could hold poisons. The knowledge of how to make weapons like this was now lost, but they had a blade created this way in their possession. It was not permanent like the magic of the goblins, but it did not have to be. The blade just had to hold the basilisk venom long enough for the Horcrux to be destroyed.

“Let me think,” Hermione murmured. “That goblet is silver. I think the best element to use to hold the venom would be air, since that tarnishes silver….”

“I agree,” said Tom.

“Well, let’s do it,” she said, smiling.

* * *

Tom stared at the blade. He wished so very much that the knowledge of elemental magic had not been lost. Perhaps he could recreate some of the knowledge by studying the athame, but it was unlikely that anything would be possible until the curse on the blade was lifted.

He uncorked the vial and poured the basilisk venom slowly on the blade, watching as it first became a vapor—spreading through the element of air—and then was sucked into the metal blade, vanishing in a swirl. This was good for a single use. Tom glared balefully at the Horcrux, which gleamed a few feet away, its malevolence rippling through the air.

_“You will assume the curse on that blade if you use it.”_

Tom and Hermione glanced at each other sharply. Neither of them had spoken. Tom realized that the voice was coming from the goblet and turned to face it just as the hissing voice came from it again.

_“If you harm me with that, the curse will move to you, scion of betrayal.”_

“You lie,” Tom declared. He picked up the athame and advanced toward the goblet.

 _“The curse suppresses magic,”_ intoned the altered voice of Armand Malfoy. _“You will no longer be a wizard.”_

Tom paused, doubt and fear suddenly filling his face.

“Don’t listen to it!” Hermione exclaimed. “It’s lying!”

 _“But what if I am not? What if I am right? You would be a Muggle… for eternity,”_ it said. _“Trapped on earth in a Muggle body, unable even to release yourself from your cursed life, since you could no longer use magic against your own Horcrux.”_

“It’s lying!” Hermione said desperately. “It’s saying anything that it thinks will stay your hand! Tom, just stab it!”

 _“She wants me dead more than she cares about you,”_ said the part of Malfoy’s soul. _“She will risk you turning into a Muggle if it means my death. She met me before she met you, after all,”_ it whispered maliciously. _“She hated me before she ever loved you.”_

“How _dare_ you,” Hermione retorted, finally baited into speaking to the thing. She moved toward Tom. “Tom, if you won’t do it, then let me.”

 _“It would be the same for her,”_ said the attenuated voice of Malfoy.

“Shut up!” Hermione roared at the goblet. Turning to Tom with wide eyes, she pleaded, “Tom, stop listening to its lies! What would a Norman wizard know about old Celtic magic anyway? Do you think Armand Malfoy knows more about it than _you?”_ It pained her a little bit to say, but if anything would work on Tom, it would be that particular appeal to his pride.

Tom blinked. His face, which had been frozen in indecision, hardened with renewed resolve. “You’re right,” he said abruptly. He turned to the cup, blade raised—

—And brought it down with a screeching clang and thud. A shock wave of magical force exploded from the cup as the bit of soul was destroyed, and a fading cry dissipated in the air.

“It’s almost a pity,” Hermione remarked, gazing at the cup. “It was really quite pretty.”

“That part is a pity,” Tom agreed, “but that cup held unicorn blood. I wouldn’t drink from it.”

“Well, no,” she agreed.

A dark reddish substance leaked from the damaged spot, mostly congealed but still fluid. Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You have to use blood magic to create a Horcrux,” Tom said in distaste, staring at the thing. “You have to cut yourself and apply your blood to it. The point is to add life force to the object, since it has none of its own. That’s what it is.”

“Armand Malfoy’s old blood. That is disgusting,” Hermione replied. She sighed deeply. “But… at least it is done. I was not sure for a second, though!”

He handed the athame back to her, a wry smile on his face. “Neither was I. It knew exactly what my worst fears would be, somehow. But I’m still a wizard.” He picked up his wand and waved it, making a single dark red rose appear at the tip. He picked it and presented it to Hermione.

* * *

Several allies from Castle l’Etrange appeared in the great hall in response to the message that Tom had sent them earlier. The Malfoys had told Tom, Hermione, and Severus that Lord Armand was likely to bring Macnair and Umbridge with him, at a minimum. Lucius was especially angry that his former vassals had been so disloyal.

They were shocked at the idea of magical fighters that were under the Imperius Curse, but once Hermione suggested that as a particularly grim possibility, Lucius and Narcissa agreed that they should prepare for it. Tom promptly sent a letter to Castle l’Etrange by owl, directed to the new lord, that under no circumstances should Ginny Weasley come to Parselhall—just in case.

“We do not need the basilisk this time,” Tom said. “Unless Malfoy has something up his sleeve that no one has foreseen, he will only have two true allies with him. The basilisk is a much greater danger to our side in this fight… and any Imperius-afflicted puppets.”

“I think we should battle outside,” said Hermione. “It may happen anyway, besides. He won’t fall for a trap like the one we set at Castle l’Etrange.”

“Apparently,” said Severus, “he didn’t fall for that one either. He stayed out of the fray.”

“Yes, he was smarter than Lestrange,” Tom agreed.

Regulus, Andromeda, and Narcissa exchanged grins. “That wasn’t very difficult, of course,” said Regulus, “but still true.”

“It would also give him fewer opportunities for cover if we have this showdown in a wide open space,” Hermione pointed out. “Outside it is. We should keep our distance, though.”

“The idea of single hand-to-hand combat being necessary is a very Muggle notion,” said Lucius. “They believe that it’s less honorable and noble for an archer or spearman to kill at a distance.” He scoffed. “Muggle foolishness at its worst.”

Tom agreed. “What matters is that a foe is defeated. Why _not_ use any advantage?”

Hermione took Tom aside after that discussion. “I _will_ have to be in close quarters to… stab the fatal wound….” she ventured. “But we can stun him first.”

Tom nodded. “The allies understand that they are to let you do that. They will either get rid of all the other foes first to clear your path, or—if Malfoy goes down first—they will hold them off so that you can do it.”

“Good,” she said.

 _“My lord!”_ exclaimed Marcus Flint, bursting into the great hall and interrupting the discussion. “We have sighted them!”

Tom instantly was paying attention. “How many, and who? If you could tell?”

“Lord Armand, of course,” he said, “and also a short woman—”

“That would be Lady Umbridge,” Lucius grumbled.

“I’m sorry to hear it, my lord,” said Flint deferentially. “There is also a wizard with a cowl… I suppose he is probably Macnair.”

“No one else?” Hermione asked. “No one with red hair?”

“No gingers,” Flint confirmed. “No other humans at all, in fact.”

The relief that they all felt at the confirmation that Malfoy had not forced any of the Weasleys to fight for him instantly disappeared at Flint’s second statement. “What do you mean, no _humans?”_ Severus asked warily.

“Has he used Inferi like Bellatrix did?” asked Andromeda, distaste on her face.

“No, my lady,” said Flint. He hesitated, wincing. “He brought at least half a dozen elves.”

“Damn!” Lucius burst out.

“Why would elves fight for _him?”_ Hermione exclaimed in dismay. “He must have forced them to!”

“No, Lady Hermione, he has not,” Lucius replied grimly. “I should have seen this coming. I should have _warned_ you lot. I just didn’t think about it. Damn it all!”

Tom glared impatiently. “Would you get to the point, Lord Lucius? Are these elves truly loyal to him, then?”

“They are,” he said. “At least, as much as they ever could be. Sneaky, untrustworthy little bastards.” Noticing the disapproving glare on Hermione’s face, Lucius glared back. “There was one who wasn’t loyal to him. He murdered it a while back, saying it had spied on him.”

Severus sighed. “It had. It reported to Regulus’s elf.”

“We thought so,” Lucius said. “The ones remaining are afraid of my grandfather, but they are loyal to him in their way. They would turn over each other’s minor infractions to him in the hope of gaining favor with him. I suppose they must believe he will reward them if they help him defeat the enemies he has railed about for years.”

“Elf magic is difficult to counter,” Severus said with a frown. “They can snap their fingers and send a wizard flying—or do other things. Once they are admitted to a particular space, they can Apparate anywhere in it. If they know spells to heal, they can do that to physical injuries. They need no wands for _any_ of this. All right,” he said to the assembled witches and wizards who were listening with growing alarm. “Our strategy has changed. Target the elves, and use spells to take them out of combat, not injure them. Petrification, Stupefy, and the like.”

Hermione was grimacing, but she did not speak up to object. Even she saw the necessity. “This makes me want him defeated even more,” she declared. “This ends now.”

“Yes,” Tom said, “it does.”

The group stood as one and prepared to do battle.

* * *

Tom had lifted the anti-Apparition ward for people who had been admitted to the castle, which enabled them to Disapparate and take strategic positions outside immediately. Attempting to keep their Disapparition as simultaneous as possible, the group of defenders disappeared from the great hall in a very loud pop—with a few scattered pops immediately before and after in the space of a second. They swirled into being outside the keep, surrounding Malfoy, Umbridge, Macnair, and the sly-faced elves in a ring.

Tom instantly cast a powerful shield to protect himself. “Malfoy,” he called out, taunting. “We expected you, so thank you for obliging us! I have something you might find interesting.” He tossed the disarmed Horcrux into the air and sent it flying toward Malfoy with a spell. It clattered to the ground and rolled before his feet.

Malfoy hissed in fury at the sight of the ruined goblet. “Half-blood barbarian,” he snarled. “This is a heavy blow to me, and I won’t deny it—but _you_ will be the fuel for my replacement!”

“Oh?” Tom said. “And how is that? You know I believe in meeting fire with fire, Malfoy—and you know what I _mean_ by that, too. How do you plan to kill me?”

Malfoy bared his teeth, his red glass eye gleaming red from within. Hermione was quite a distance away, but she could still see it. It was horrifying. _He does not have a real eye in that socket, but I still see red light when he is angry. That means that when Tom’s eyes do that, I am actually looking at a damaged edge of his soul,_ she thought. The idea was terribly sad and distracting, so she instantly pushed it out of her mind and gripped her wand tighter. The battle should begin any second now—

“I _could_ kill your Mudblood instead,” Malfoy mused. He turned to Hermione in a fraction of a second, still grinning that shark-like grin.

She reacted instantly. With a quick twist, she Disapparated to the other side of the battlefield. She was gone from the spot before the jet of lethal green light struck the stone that had been behind her, chipping it.

Tom gave a roar of outrage. With that, the battle was joined.

A pair of elves disappeared and then reappeared with pops behind Regulus, shouting invective at him for the collusion with Dobby. He was not quite fast enough. With malicious laughter, they snapped their fingers, sending him flying. He landed facedown with a terrible thud—and did not get up.

“Regulus!” exclaimed Sirius, rushing to his brother. He stooped to his knees and tried to heal his brother’s injuries, putting up a powerful shield charm.

Harry was concerned for Regulus, and he intuitively understood that there were enough defenders—despite the surprise of the house-elves—that not everyone had to be engaged in combat. That was a nasty fall that Regulus took, and it might be best to treat it as quickly as possible. Still, Sirius was almost undefended. Harry hurried to his side, keeping his wand drawn and eyes fixed on the battlefield.

Lady Umbridge was sending torture curses and cutting hexes at everyone in range. Her beady gaze darted frequently to Lucius, whom she apparently regarded as a traitor, but she also sent frequent hexes at Harry and Sirius. Some of them struck target.

Harry let out a yell and dropped his wand as his hand suddenly erupted in blood. Sirius grabbed the wand immediately and stood up, but another wizard rushed in front of him.

“I’ve got this, Padfoot,” said Remus Lupin. He directed his wand at Umbridge and engaged her in magical combat immediately, allowing Sirius and Harry to rest and recoup their strength.

Across the field, Armand Malfoy was fighting Tom, Hermione, and Severus with a rapidity and ferocity that could only have come from consuming unicorn blood. He was also swearing fluently in his native tongue—which all of the combatants engaged with him understood. Tom’s normally pale face was vividly pink in fury at what Malfoy was calling him.

“Now you suffer the just fate of traitors!” shouted Lucius Malfoy, taking down Macnair. Tom, Hermione, and Severus heard his voice carried on the wind, but they had the presence of mind not to let themselves be distracted even as the fall of one more foe brought hope to their hearts.

A shout erupted across the battlefield as a team of Tom’s noble allies brought down the elves who had injured Regulus. The noise momentarily distracted Malfoy. Tom, Hermione, and Severus instantly had the same thought while Malfoy’s head was briefly turned. As one, they cast stupefaction curses at him.

In that moment, it seemed that everyone on the field had slowed their spellcasting. Armand Malfoy was stunned. His one human eye widened in shock. As if time itself had slowed down, he toppled backward, hitting the ground with a thud.

Tom grabbed his wand out of his aged hand and tossed it aside. Glaring furiously into Malfoy’s living eye, he forced his way into Malfoy’s mind. His face hardened and his eyes narrowed. Then a smirk bloomed across his face.

“You can do it, Hermione,” he said to her. “The silver goblet was the only one.” He backed away, keeping his own wand directed at Malfoy’s forehead in case the latter showed any sign of movement. Across the field, scattered groups were still fighting the elves, but the central focus was on the small group, the lords of Parselhall, who had taken Malfoy down.

Hermione unsheathed the Athame of Morgana and approached Malfoy. She breathed deeply and placed the edge of the blade against the side of his neck, where the blood vessels visibly pulsed. The prospect of doing this deed suddenly revolted her. It was one thing to use a magical spell such as the Killing Curse. That was bloodless and somewhat impersonal. This was deeply, violently personal, and Hermione found the idea appalling. _Will I be able to do it?_ she thought. _Will I? Or will I let someone else do it at last?_

Malfoy could still move his eyes. He fixed his gaze on Hermione with utter hatred in his one living eye. Because of the spells, he was unable to speak.

Suddenly, Hermione felt a surge of the courage and resolve that she had been lacking. Was it the blade? The curse had not yet been lifted… _or had it?_ Whatever it was, she suddenly realized that she could do this after all.

“You lie on this ground because of your own choices,” Hermione said to him, her teeth clenched. _“You_ are the one who chose to make war against this family for four years. _You_ are the one who usurped power to yourself alone, antagonizing the Black family. _You_ are the one who attempted to abolish English wizarding culture and make witches live like Muggle women by force. _You_ are the one who then turned on your _own_ family, ultimately driving them to join with us for the good of the magical population. Killing an enemy in battle is not what I ever wanted to be doing at age seventeen… but _you_ have left me with no choice. Know that, now that the end has come for you.”

Defiant to the last, Malfoy glared at her with his one eye as she drew blood.

She backed away to avoid the violent spatter, clutching the athame in hand, as he bled out his life. Tom stood up, placing a hand gently on her shoulder to support her.

Even dying, Malfoy was very magically powerful. He struggled, but at last, he threw off the stupefaction hexes just enough to speak.

 _“I deserved more,”_ he retched—though only Tom, Severus, and Hermione could hear.

“Finally, we agree on something,” Tom retorted. “Unfortunately, we have more important things to do.”

In the final second, Malfoy glared back—but then his human eye became unfocused, and the red light behind the glass marble one faded.

Hermione turned to Lucius and Narcissa, who were staring at the proceedings with very mixed feelings on their faces, Lucius’s especially. He was visibly relieved that his grandfather was finally dead, but… Hermione was relatively sure he was not entirely happy that _she_ had done it. _Well, he will have to come to terms with it,_ she thought.

Narcissa whispered something to him, which jerked him out of his focused contemplation. “Elves!” Lucius commanded. “I am your master now, and I _order_ you to stop fighting these people!”

The command worked. Across the open space, the elves who were still on their feet froze in their tracks and dropped any weapons that they were carrying. Several of them glared hatefully at Lucius, but Hermione—to her surprise—could not muster any sympathy for them.

“I must go inside the castle,” Severus said to Tom and Hermione. “If all has gone as it should, Merope has awakened. I should be there—and so should the twins.”

“Of course,” Tom agreed.

Severus departed the battlefield, entering the castle through the gates. Tom took Hermione’s arm and made his way with her across the field, meeting with those who had taken injuries. The worst appeared to be Regulus Black’s. He still had not awakened by the time that Tom and Hermione reached him. Sirius and Harry were standing grimly over his form.

“He had a cracked skull,” Sirius said, “and I was able to repair that, but….” He trailed off unhappily, gazing at his brother’s face.

Tom and Hermione could tell that Sirius was feeling regrets over issues that had little to do with Regulus’s injury and, very likely, everything to do with his own estrangement from the family and unnecessary antagonism toward his younger brother for years. But these matters could be resolved later. For now, Regulus’s health was more important.

“He should be carried inside immediately,” Hermione told them. “There are all kinds of potions. He should be made to awaken as soon as possible, though, if he suffered a head injury. This is not good for him.”

Sirius was visibly worried as he and Harry levitated Regulus inside. Hermione hoped that Merope was already awake and that Severus was seeing to her, but she also hoped that someone would provide the needed potions to Regulus. A concussion was a serious injury.

The Malfoys wanted to leave as quickly as possible and take Armand’s body with them, to which Tom had no objection. If they wanted to bury the body of someone who had drunk cursed potion all his life on their own grounds, that was their affair. Tom, for his part, had read enough about cursed earth in his studies of Celtic magic that he wanted the body off the grounds of Parselhall as quickly as possible. He would have burned it with swift dispatch if Lord Lucius—no, Lord _Malfoy_ now—had not requested to take it to the tombs of Malfoy Manor with the family.

 _I suppose that despite all his evil acts, he was still their family,_ Tom mused as he and Hermione gathered the allies together to return inside. _I doubt I will ever forgive him for what he did in his life, but I do understand loyalty to one’s family even if they do evil things._

They were at the gates of Parselhall’s keep now, at the head of the small army. He took Hermione by the hand and pulled her close, kissing her forehead and then her hand. He wanted to do more, but now was not the time, before all these people.

They took a deep breath and entered the castle, victors at last.

* * *

Merope was indeed awake. That was the first news that they heard from those who had remained inside the castle. She was not yet able to leave her bed—even though her stasis had not harmed her health, it had deprived her of several months of exercise, and her legs were weak—but she was awake, and Severus had brought the twins to her.

“That means that he has already told her about how the battle went,” Tom said, vaguely disappointed.

“You wanted to do that?” Hermione asked him.

He sighed. “I… suppose he is the right person… but yes. I did.” Aware that all the people who had come to Parselhall were in the great hall, Tom ascended the high seat of Parselhall— _the last time I will do this for many years… I hope,_ he thought—and magnified the sound of his voice with his wand.

“My friends and loyal allies,” he announced to them. “As we have all seen, the battle and war are over, and we are triumphant. I have learned that my lady mother has awakened at last from the vile curse that Malfoy put on her, and I must go to her—but I urge all of you to remain here or go to the grand banquet hall if you require food and drink.”

“I have felt something different about this blade,” Hermione remarked once they had closed the large doors behind them and were walking the halls.

Tom smiled. “That means that the curse is lifted! What is it like?”

“It’s powerful,” she said. “I felt something begin on the battlefield, when we had Malfoy stunned on the ground. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it… and then, all of a sudden, I realized that I could.” She frowned. “But how could that be the ‘Wisdom of the Ruler’?”

“A ruler must be able to administer justice,” Tom said.

“That is true,” she agreed.

They reached Merope’s room. The door was already open. Tom burst into a real smile as he met his mother’s eyes. They rushed into the room and got on their knees by her bedside.

“Severus told me what happened,” Merope said, her smile weak but there. She was holding the two twins close, as though she never intended to let go of them again. “It is strange to me that the last thing I remember was being cursed by Lestrange… but it is over now, thanks to the two of you.” She regarded Hermione fondly. “I am proud of you. You deserve everything that will come to you as a result of this.”

“We’re going to reinstate the Wizengamot,” Tom explained. “Repeal Malfoy’s laws. After that… we shall see if the wizarding nobles even _want_ another high lord.”

“Of course,” she said.

“I admit,” Tom said wryly, “a part of me hopes they do not. I am not sure they would be ready to choose… us… when we’re so young yet.”

Merope laughed, though it was weak and hoarse. “You may be right for a different reason! After Malfoy’s ‘reign,’ what noble family would want to cede power again?” She smiled again, but it faded quickly. “I am sure there will be much that you will want to tell me of what happened while I was… asleep. Severus has hinted at some of the major details.”

Tom instantly knew what she was talking about. He shot Snape a glare.

“The story of the war, as it relates to actions that the two of you took, is yours to tell,” Merope said. “I explained to him that I wanted to hear it from you.” She gazed at Tom’s eyes. “We all must make hard choices in difficult times.”

Tom swallowed, nodding. He wondered if it _really_ had been necessary for him to create a Horcrux. Yes, Malfoy had struck him with a Killing Curse after the battle of Castle l’Etrange, but perhaps he could have avoided that if he had been more careful and observant. Perhaps it had not been inevitable. Perhaps—but no, this was not productive. _I will never know,_ he thought, _and it does no good to speculate on what might have happened._

“Hermione was always by my side, and I by hers,” Tom managed.

Merope looked satisfied. “Then it is as I hoped from the beginning.”

The infants began squalling, so she held them close. “I will always regret that I missed any of their early days,” she said unhappily.

“At least you did not miss as much as you might have,” Severus said. “They will not have any missing memories of _you.”_

“That is true,” she conceded.

Tom and Hermione seemed to understand that Severus and Merope needed to catch up in private. They linked arms again and left the room, pulling the door closed, before descending the stairs to return to their many guests.

* * *

Regulus Black awakened that evening. He was disoriented and weak, but they all believed that he would recover in due time.

“I don’t intend to use Armand Malfoy’s method of healing my injury, to be sure!” he exclaimed to wide laughter. The Riddle-Snape family—now happily _all_ present and reunited—sat at the head table in the dining hall with Lord and Lady Black, Regulus, Sirius, and their families. The rest of the guests occupied the other tables.

“I heard from Lucius—the new Lord Malfoy,” Tom said, holding a letter. “He, Lady Narcissa, and Sir Percival Weasley are going to be here tomorrow to… negotiate.”

Widespread jeers and boos echoed across the room. Tom put his hand up for silence. “All right, I understand, but let’s not do that. If not for Lord Malfoy’s family, we would have been unable to truly defeat the old lord today. The Weasleys have not fought with us, and I have no intention of rewarding them—especially the ones who entered such a foolish alliance—but neither did they actually fight _against_ us. It is important to speak to them, since they have the ear of the Muggle king. We have a plan for countering that influence, though.”

This statement was met with applause.

“In addition, the king has to either acknowledge a new High Lord of Wizards or dissolve the position. In the absence of a High Lord who can speak for the king in wizarding matters, he also must be the one to restore titles to any families who had those titles stripped by Armand Malfoy. If we reinstate our ancient governing body instead of having a High Lord, we will need his approval. We must deal with the Weasleys. I look forward to it,” he concluded.

Hermione noticed a hint of malice in his words, which she knew was because of the fact that Tom intended to blackmail and extort them with their deal with the goblins, but she could not bring herself to care—either about that or much else, at least on this night.

* * *

The next day, Percy Weasley did appear at Parselhall with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. He was scowling bitterly— _as well he should,_ Tom thought as he admitted the young knight. He and Hermione were still occupying the high seats, since Merope remained weak and tired. Tom found that he was not especially looking forward to the end of his regency. He felt guilty about it, since it had only happened because of his mother’s curse, but so it was. He and Hermione had assumed leadership in the war—they had, in that series of events, truly become adults, he realized—and it would be difficult to surrender it now. He was definitely intending to angle for seats on the restored Wizengamot for everyone in the Riddle-Snape family who wanted them. Hermione did, he knew—and she should have one. She was the slayer of Armand Malfoy, the breaker of the Curse of Mordred, and the symbolism of her being on the Wizengamot was too important for her not to have a place. Tom was not certain, though, if Severus and his mother actually did want seats. His mother had always been content to rule Hangleton….

Tom forced his thoughts to return to the present and the people who stood before him.

“Sir Percival,” he said formally but coolly. “I am pleased to see you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Percy managed.

Tom briefly thought about offering a chair to Percy, but only briefly. “As you know, I summoned you here today to discuss the future of witches and wizards in Britain—particularly in England. Your family swore an alliance to the Malfoy family, but Lord Armand Malfoy is now dead, and the new lord supports the cause that my allies and I fought for: the reinstatement of the old Wizengamot and the restoration of prior law.” He gazed hard at Percy. “It is in your family’s best interest that you remain loyal to the Malfoy family and therefore to us. We can protect you from the goblins.”

Percy grimaced, and a slight, almost inaudible groan escaped his mouth. He quickly recovered himself and nodded to Tom. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “That is very good of you.”

Tom met eyes with Lucius, satisfied.

* * *

The guests kept arriving. The next one was Albus Dumbledore, who was eager to have official permission to change the policies Armand Malfoy had made that affected Hogwarts.

“Most especially the one that prevents witches and wizards of Muggle birth from attending,” he said, his blue eyes gazing at Hermione as he spoke. “It is not as the Founders intended… at least, three of them.”

“And the fourth was wrong,” Tom said in a low voice.

Dumbledore studied him with interest. “Yes,” he said.

“Slytherin was wrong about other things too,” Tom said grudgingly. “He was wrong to befriend Armand Malfoy in order to have ‘revenge’ against Gryffindor.”   He sipped a cup of wine. “I have been in discussions with the Blacks—and Lord Malfoy—about what should become of Gryffindor’s castle. I do not want to give it to James Potter. He did not fight with us, and he abandoned his wife.”

“He opposed the Weasleys’ ill-considered alliance,” Dumbledore reminded him.

“That may be,” Tom said stubbornly, “but he did not fight with us.”

“The new lord of Castle l’Etrange did not fight with you either,” Dumbledore pointed out, “and you offered that lordship to him.”

“He was in service to our allies the Blacks. James Potter was serving himself from the start. Even his opposition to the Weasleys’ alliance with Armand Malfoy was self-interested, since he wanted his son to marry their daughter. Making peace is one thing, but I don’t want to reward people who did not help us. I have discussed this with Lord and Lady Black, and I think that the castle should go to Sirius Black and his family. One of his children is probably going to wed one of ours someday, and another might end up being the heir of House Black, so he does not want to be separated from his family for the children to be raised noble. Having a castle where he was master would make it easier for him than having to live with his brother.”

Dumbledore considered that. “That is a noble offer. I just hope that it does not create a rift in their friendship.”

“That friendship is already riven due to James Potter’s own actions,” Hermione cut in. “We had nothing to do with that. The castle of Gryffindor never belonged to the Potters—even when they were titled, they were knights in his service—and it is unfair to Sirius, who has been by our side throughout the war, to deny him a reward in order to placate a man who turned out his wife over a relationship that she had before they were married.”

“It is none of my affair, of course,” Dumbledore said. “I did not realize that the state of the friendship was that poor. I hope they can reconcile. I hope they can _all_ reconcile.”

Hermione was not sure if she hoped anything of the kind, at least unless James Potter humbled himself before Lily for his behavior. She had never met the man, but he seemed far too arrogant—and far too old to change his ways—for that to be likely. As she exchanged a quick glance with Tom, she realized that he felt the same.

* * *

_A month later._

This was to be a momentous day for most of the magical people of Britain. In most cases, it was because of the fact that someone—or several—in their family were leaving the following day for a grand castle in Scotland. Pupils were beginning a new year of instruction at Hogwarts. The war had been concluded in the summer, not interfering with the Hogwarts schedule after all. Today would be the last day that families would have to spend time with their children, at least until the Christmas-Yule intermission in the winter.

It was also the wedding day of Adelaide Lestrange to her long-lost relative Bertram Fitz Lestrange. Hermione and Tom had no plans to attend that, and they did not believe that the bride, at least, even wanted them to be present. Cygnus and Druella Black, her grandparents, were attending, and that would likely be awkward enough. For most of her life, Adelaide had most likely expected her wedding day to be a grand event. Instead, it was to be subdued and extremely private.

After witnessing the scene in which Adelaide had left Hogwarts in misery with Professor McGonagall’s aid, swearing that she would like to return, Hermione felt vaguely depressed that her former schoolmate had been unable to achieve that goal. _Perhaps it was just impossible after everything that happened,_ she thought as she got herself ready for the event in which she and Tom _were_ participating. _After the conduct of her parents, the war, the things that were said about her, perhaps this is for the best. At least she will have access to the Lestrange family library… and being married to a half-blood will surely help to change her views. They have already begun to change, in fact._

Most of the wizarding families were spending a final day with their children. A few of the nobles were attending a wedding. But most importantly, Tom and Hermione were preparing themselves to go to London to participate in the reopening of the ancient Wizengamot chamber, along with the rest of the nobles whose seats had been restored.

Merope and Severus would be present for the event after all. Tom was delighted that his mother was gradually returning to full health after her period of stasis. It remained to be seen how active she—or Severus, for that matter—would actually be on the Wizengamot, but Tom felt that the more seats his family could claim, the better.

Hermione finished her routine and gazed at herself in the mirror. Tom noticed, admiring her. “You look lovely,” he remarked. He extended an arm to her. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, smiling. “I think I’ve waited for this day for years. There are few other days in my life for which I can say that.” She took his arm.

He pulled her close. “And that’s as it should be.” He flicked his wand, opening their bedchamber door.

They headed down the hall and down the stairs, reaching the great hall, where Merope and Severus stood arm-in-arm as well. Each of them held a small infant. Merope was determined that the tradition of wizards and witches publicly respecting parenthood would be retained, and both Tom and—especially—Hermione agreed that it was a fine goal.

“Good morning, Mother, Severus. We are all ready,” Tom observed, “and the Wizengamot awaits us.”

“In fairness, Tom, it has not opened its session,” Hermione pointed out with an affectionate smile. He shook his head in mild exasperation at her determination to be strictly accurate about all things. “But—you are right.” She faced the grand doors of Parselhall’s keep. “We have achieved what we hoped, and wizarding Britain itself now awaits us.”

The family flicked their wands to open the heavy doors and, together, stepped into the daylight.


	57. Epilogue:  Nine Years Later

_Castle Parselhall at Hangleton._

The castle was very different these days. Most significantly, it was much noisier. The sounds of four children, all close in age, rang through every corridor that was not warded against noise whenever the children were awake. Sometimes, there were five children stalking the halls—or even six. It all depended on whether the Blacks were visiting at a given time, and today was to be one such visit.

“Malcolm—Morgan—that’s quite enough,” Hermione said authoritatively, breaking up a squabble between her eight- and seven-year-old. Interestingly, Morgan had appeared to have been winning it, despite being almost a year and a half younger than her brother and also smaller. The little girl was very bold, though, even to the point of being bossy—of which Hermione approved as long as it did not cross the line into bullying her milder older brother. She wondered if her daughter would even be in Slytherin House once she went to Hogwarts. She seemed very much like a Gryffindor to Hermione. It ultimately would depend on whether the Sorting Hat considered her boldness or her leadership ambitions to have primacy.

_Though,_ Hermione thought, forcing them apart, _I am not so sure if Malcolm will be in Slytherin House either._ Her son, like all the rest of the family, was very sure of himself in his own way, despite his tendency to concede defeat to his sister in brawls. Hermione suspected that was just because he did not want to hurt a little girl. He had already declared what he believed he wanted to be, and that was a Hogwarts Master.

_He is only eight,_ she thought. _Much can and will change. But if that particular ambition does not, then—unless I have more children—Morgan will be the heiress of Parselhall._ In a way, it seemed appropriate, almost fated, due to the child’s name. That had been Tom’s idea, giving honor to his ancestor without saddling the child with the identical name.

“Yes, that’s quite enough,” sniffed Eileen Snape, who—with her twin brother Padrig—stood by in prim superiority.

Morgan eyed her. _“You_ can’t tell me what to do and neither can he.”

“We are older than you. And you should call me ‘Aunt Eileen,’” the girl said haughtily, though it was clear to Hermione that she was being deliberately provoking.

“That’s right,” Padrig chimed in. “You should listen to your _elders.”_

Morgan was furious. “Elders? Only _old_ people get to say that. You may be older, but I’m as big as you, and you’re no better than us! I won’t.”

Severus entered the hall with Merope, his black robes trailing behind him imperiously. “That’s enough from the two of _you_ as well,” he said pointedly, staring at his children. “I don’t want to hear of this type of argument again. None of you have the right to tell each other what to do. That’s for us adults—myself, Lady Merope, Lady Hermione, and Lord Thomas.” He turned to Hermione. “He will be here soon.”

“What is he doing?” she asked.

“Writing a letter to Lord Malfoy about the tax dispute,” Merope said.

“Ah,” said Hermione. That had been a point of contention between the Riddle-Snape family and Lucius Malfoy the last time the Wizengamot had met. Tom had wanted to impose a tax on wine from France; Lucius had not. Although Hermione was not about to pick a fight with him—it wasn’t that important to her—she was privately on Malfoy’s side in this, because she knew that Tom’s motive was not about leveling an unfair market. The wine that came from English vineyards really was inferior, though Tom refused to admit that.

“He should be with us shortly,” Merope continued. “In the meantime, I think that what everyone needs are sweetmeats! Fionn”—she summoned her most attentive house-elf—“please bring out a platter of them for the children.”

That distracted all four of them from their childlike squabbles. Hermione shot Merope a wry smile.

* * *

The Black family—at least, that part of the sprawling family that lived in Castle Leo, formerly Castle Draconis—arrived with their retinue. Sirius, Marlene, Cassandra, Marlene’s ten-year-old daughter from her first marriage, and the two little ones that the couple had had together in the intervening years arrived, accompanied by Harry, Luna, and Lily. Harry was now _Sir_ Harry. He greeted his old schoolmates with a wry smile as Sirius’s older son, Phineas, immediately cut loose upon entering the keep of Parselhall.

“All right, remember your manners,” their mother scolded her son—in vain. She was struggling with a fussy toddler, Lycoris. Meanwhile, Morgan was already taking possession of Phineas as her _very best friend,_ leaving her quieter brother by himself.

“Leave them be,” Sirius croaked, trying very hard to keep a grimace off his face as Morgan grabbed Phineas’s hand eagerly. “At least they get along.”

Tom finally emerged from his study to greet his guests. “Sirius—and family. Welcome. I apologize for my tardiness in greeting you. The Wizengamot is a demanding beast.”

“We are all friends here,” Marlene assured him.

Sirius eyed Tom. “The Wizengamot? Are you really going to pursue that—”

“Please, not now,” Severus cut in before Tom and Sirius could get into a debate on the merits of the import tax on French elf-made wine. They glared at each other but subsided.

Harry, Luna, and Hermione exchanged glances of relief; Sirius and Tom disagreed on the subject, and Tom had made several choice comments to the effect that Sirius drank too much and just wanted cheap wine. That had led to a duel, which Tom had won—unfortunately, because Sirius _had_ been tipsy when he issued his challenge. It had been an embarrassing, awkward situation, and no one cared to repeat it. Hermione had always known that her family and her allies would sometimes be at odds in political matters. _Peaceful—mostly peaceful—disagreement about politics is a luxury that we did not have in the days of High Lord Armand Malfoy,_ she thought.

“Indeed,” Merope said authoritatively. “Let us all retire to a private room.” She led the way to one of the larger parlors in the castle, ushering everyone else inside—including the children. There was an alcove set aside for them to play, if they liked—and they did. Morgan, Phineas, Eileen, and Padrig all went eagerly to the side nook, which had been warded with spells to reduce noise. Hermione and Tom’s older child, Malcolm, hovered between the adults and the others. He looked torn between duty and desire—but, contrarily to what one would expect for an eight-year-old, he seemed to perceive his duty to be to play with his peers, and his desire to sit quietly with the adults.

Hermione understood. She had been that child once. “Malcolm,” she said gently to him, “if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. You may sit with the rest of us if you would prefer that.”

He nodded gratefully at his mother. “Thank you, Mother,” he said quietly. He shuffled to a chair near his parents, across from Marlene’s firstborn, Cassandra.

“You visited your parents recently,” Tom remarked without preamble. “What was _that_ like, if I may ask?”

Sirius glowered, certain that Tom was baiting him. In truth, Hermione knew that he wasn’t. It was just a sensitive subject for Sirius, even after years.

“Lycoris had his first magical breakthrough during the visit. They were _thrilled_ about that,” Sirius said, attempting to keep the sourness out of his words and not entirely succeeding. “The heir of House Black certainly must be magical, and a _pureblood,_ of course.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “Even now, I do not understand why Dora couldn’t do it. She is a grown witch. They know her capabilities. I do not mean to speak ill of my own child, of course—but what do they know about a three-year-old?” He sighed. “But she made her choice with her eyes open. I’m glad she is happy. Remus is my friend, but I would call him out if he ever made her unhappy again, considering what she gave up to be with him.”

Hermione remembered: Eight years ago, Remus and Dora Lupin had been estranged due to a panic by Remus about having a family as a werewolf. Harry had been utterly furious, as had Sirius, and they had scolded the werewolf ferociously, invoking James Potter’s ill-treatment and abandonment of Lily. It had enraged Lupin at the time, but he had returned to his family at last.

“She made her choice, as you say,” Tom remarked. “I don’t like it, but your parents do have the right to dispose of their fortune and title as they see fit. That was one of the rights we fought for, after all… the rights of wizarding families to manage their own affairs, not to have them dictated by a High Lord.”

Sirius stared at the floor. “I suppose so.”

“We also visited Hogsmeade,” Harry remarked. Sadness came over his face. “It has not been the same since Dumbledore….” He trailed off. “Well, High Mistress McGonagall is doing well, at least.”

Tom’s face was expressionless, Hermione noted, but she understood Harry’s point of view. “He was the last living person who studied directly under the Founders of Hogwarts,” she said. “It is a loss indeed. But at least he left behind a cabinet full of memories, I’ve heard.”

“No one has been able to go through it yet, though,” said Harry.

“Do you mean that no one has been able to get inside the cabinet because it is magically locked, or that no one has _felt_ like it?” Tom pressed.

“The latter,” Harry said curtly. “Perhaps you should go, since it does not seem to trouble you.”

“I could look at them,” Luna mused, oblivious to the tensions between the two wizards. “It would honor him. He saved them for a reason. He _wanted_ people to see them—to remember him that way.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

“It would be a very interesting view of Hogwarts history,” Hermione said at once. “I think Luna is right. We should go there—all of us who want to—and ask about it.”

They lapsed into silence for a while, which was broken by the rumblings of the children that made it through the magical wards. The adults glanced quickly toward the alcove; it appeared that a squabble had broken out, and Phineas had managed to put a wandless hex on Eileen that made her hair wet. The girl was throwing a tantrum over it, although it was just water. Morgan was laughing with glee, and Hermione strongly suspected that she had been the instigator. Phineas Black looked a bit too frightened and awed by his own actions for her to believe that this had been entirely his idea. Tom smirked broadly, though he attempted—badly—to cover it.

“Excuse me,” Sirius said, rising from his seat to scold his son.

Reluctantly Tom rose as well, ignoring Snape’s smirk of pleasure. If it were up to him, Morgan—and Phineas, for that matter—would not be punished. In his opinion, his half-siblings were too priggish for their tender ages, had too high an opinion of themselves, and deserved to be taken down a notch by their peers sometimes, but he supposed it would look extremely ill-bred to allow another man’s child to take the full blame for this.

Hermione and Merope exchanged mildly exasperated glances, but neither was troubled.

* * *

The families had a nice dinner in the grand banquet hall that evening. The family dining room was too small for so many people now. Hermione set up a table for the children, who were thrilled to eat with the adults—but who, except for Cassandra and Malcolm, could not be trusted to behave at the main table.

“You must do as they tell you,” she told the younger ones, who all pouted, including the young Snapes. “You must. This is an honor. If you abuse it, we may not offer it again soon.”

That got their attention. Even spitfire Morgan scowled in resignation. However, Hermione could tell that her daughter did not resent the situation that much. She got on well with her brother as long as he was fair, which he usually was, and the young Snapes were not interested in starting a provocation that would get all of them removed from the dining room and shamed. _Malcolm takes after me so much that it is almost scary,_ she thought as she went back to the main table to take her seat.

The house-elves brought out dinner in a flash, as if by magic. Hermione made sure to thank the elf who served her. It troubled her that so many wizard nobles took the elves for granted… including, she hated to say it, her own family. At least they did not _abuse_ them, though.

“I saw Draco a fortnight ago,” Luna remarked airily. “Draco and Lady Astoria.”

Tom nodded curtly. Draco Malfoy did not visit _them_ much, due to the current disagreement between the Riddles and the Malfoys about taxes. Unlike his parents, Draco seemed to take Tom’s view personally.

“How are they?” Hermione inqured.

“They seem all right,” Luna said in her musical voice. “They were expecting the Fitz Lestranges and some of the Blacks”—she nodded at Sirius—“to join them in a hunting party.”

“My parents,” Sirius said in a surly tone. “They always did like those things.”

“You could go,” Harry said. “You could be Padfoot and play a joke on the lot.”

Sirius glowered. “I could, but they might take me for one of _their_ hounds and try to boss me. It would end badly.”

Harry and Luna exchanged exasperated glances. Sirius was determined to be unpleasant and contrarian, it appeared. Something was irking him. Although Harry and Luna did not have a guess, Tom and Hermione knew exactly what the problem was. Sirius was despairing over the friendship between Phineas and Morgan, not because he disliked their child—both Hermione and Tom knew that he actually liked their mischievous, bold daughter quite a bit, as she reminded him of himself—but because that friendship could very well lead to the very match that he had not wanted to happen and the life that he had not wanted for his family.

_Too bad,_ Tom thought. He had little sympathy. It was a _good_ thing that everything appeared to be working out: that Malcolm appeared to have little interest in the title of Hangleton, that Morgan liked Phineas, and that it was mutual. He only hoped it lasted.

“It was a good thing that we decided not to have a wizarding High Lord after the war,” Sirius remarked, changing the subject, as he picked up his slab of roast beef and took a bite. “I’m worried about the long-term stability of the Muggle throne.”

_“I_ am worried about the _Muggles,”_ Tom groused. “They spent years fighting a war to install a king, and then after his rule ended, the throne passed to the son of the woman who had been his rival. Whatever did they fight for?”

“We fought a war too,” Harry reminded him.

“Ours was brief, and we fought for ideas—ideas that we put into practice after we won. I think Muggles just like to choose sides and fight for the thrill of it. They have jousting and tournaments for that purpose, and that’s their ‘entertainment.’ Some are different,” he said hurriedly, nodding to Hermione. “Some are cultured and gentle. But on the whole, they are a violent people.”

“We duel,” Harry countered.

“We do not usually duel in groups for the amusement of spectators,” Tom replied. “And what is your point, Potter? Your godfather agrees that there are reasons to be worried about the Muggles’ political situation in the long term, due to their instability.”

Sirius looked hunted, as if he did not like being brought into the debate—but he had begun it. And on this issue, Hermione took Tom’s part.

“The Muggle royal family of Plantagenet is… potentially going to be a problem,” she said delicately. “I do not know when it will all come to a head, but they have significant Muggle noble support for involvement in foreign wars. I cannot say whether these ‘Holy Crusades’ are a good or a bad thing for wizards who live in the affected countries, because I don’t know how they currently live, but I do know that the Muggles are not fighting these wars for the sake of witches and wizards.”

“I expect it _will_ come to a head in our lifetimes,” Tom said glumly. “We may need to consider completing what we have already begun, and sealing ourselves away from the Muggles for our own protection.”

“That would be difficult. We have Muggle subjects. Are we going to enserf them once again, forbidding them to leave the lands to which they are bound? Or meddling with their memories every time they want to? If we do not, then we will have to give up being nobles, because how will we support our holdings without them?”

Tom did not like the implication that his status as a noble was dependent on Muggle subjects working his farms and engaging in non-magical trades, but he could not argue the point logically. His facial expression soured.

“My uncle Alphard will keep us all informed at the Wizengamot about what is the thinking of the Church,” Sirius said confidently. “Whatever happens, we will be able to prepare for it.”

“Having a seat reserved for a member of the priesthood was a good decision,” Merope murmured. “It is a voice we need to hear frequently.”

* * *

Tom continued to be troubled by the discussion of Muggle politics and wars. After the Black family had settled into their quarters, and all the children were put to bed, he and Hermione—and Merope and Severus—took private walks on the castle grounds to talk together.

“I thought my life’s work would be ending the tyrannical rule of Armand Malfoy,” Tom confessed to Hermione as they turned a corner. He gazed the stars, then back down at the grass. “The impeccable wisdom of seventeen.”

Despite herself, despite the worries that she had about the future of their children, Hermione managed a laugh. “In fairness to you, he _was_ a menace. It was hard for any of us to see past the immediate threat when it was so great, and removing him _was_ the right priority.”

He smiled briefly. “It is easy to fight a foe that you can name and to whom you can put a face,” he remarked quietly. “If the Muggles’ religious warfare continues, it _will_ touch us, and we will not have a name or a face for it. It will not be about one person. We’re lucky, in a way, that it has not yet. Perhaps I should give Armand Malfoy some credit: He did isolate the wizarding population from the problems of Muggle kings and Muggle lords. It was so that he could usurp power to himself without being answerable to anyone, including the Muggle king to whom he officially owed fealty, but it did protect us from the Muggle wars, both domestic and foreign.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows teasingly at him. “Perhaps there is your answer, then.”

“Reinstate Malfoy’s title and take it for myself?” Tom said with a smirk. “I want to, but I don’t think the others would stand for it. They are used to having power restored again too, with the Wizengamot.”

“That is very true,” she said.

Conversation between them subsided as they continued their nighttime stroll.

* * *

Elsewhere on the grounds of Parselhall, Severus and Merope were also walking hand-in-hand like a pair of young lovers, despite being over forty.

“Do you think they will be able to handle what the future holds?” he asked her quietly.

“I do,” she said, not waiting a second to respond.

Severus continued walking. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”

“Severus,” she said, _“we_ do not know what the future holds—and yet, we usually do rise to meet it in some way. Tom and Hermione showed that they were leaders when they were barely adults at all. They made alliances, and those alliances have held all these years.”

“Despite the constant tensions with Black,” Severus sniped.

“Black truly never wanted to live as a nobleman,” Merope said. “That is clear. Even now, he would rather raise his family in the cottage at Godric’s Hollow. He also sees the friendship between his son and little Morgan and realizes what it could mean. He is having to let go of his hope that his children will reject the path that was set out for them. That’s all that it is. He _is_ our ally. All of the alliances remain strong, and it’s a credit to the young people that they do. I have faith in them.” She stopped and reached for Severus’s cheek, caressing him with a wry smile. “And we will be there too, most likely. Anything that happens in Tom and Hermione’s lifetime—anything in which they must be active—will also happen during ours. They won’t be alone.”

He could not smile, but he accepted her words nonetheless. Something about her always brought peace to him. “I just hope they have a few more years—decades, better yet. That way, the youngest generation will be old enough to help.” He smirked proudly. “They are going to be powerful, you know.”

Merope understood which set of children he meant. “I am proud of them,” she said. “I wish they would get on better with their niece and nephew—and how odd it is to say those words!—but it should improve later. They are all trying to establish their places now—all except Malcolm, who seems to know already.”

Snape grunted. “Swot. He reminds me of… someone.”

“Of yourself?” Merope said pointedly, but a grin was tugging at both sides of her mouth.

At last, Severus smiled. It was a wry smile, but his so often were. Merope liked them that way.

No one was watching, especially not the younger couple who were still wandering the grounds, as they embraced in the summer starlight.

* * *

Tom and Hermione returned to the castle when the summertime damp started to vex them. They retired to their bedroom, instantly stripping off their robes, the inner set of which were beginning to cling to their bodies.

“Ah,” Hermione said, collapsing on the bed. “Much better.”

Tom took off his robes but put on his sleep robe, belting it loosely around his waist. “You will get cool quickly,” he remarked to Hermione, joining her on the bed.

“I could just steal your warmth, then,” she replied immediately.

Tom smirked. “Very funny.”

“You won’t refuse me.”

“I won’t,” he agreed mildly. He sighed. “Hermione, love, have I ever told you that you actually keep _me_ warm?”

“You have said it in winter, when it really is cold, but I doubt that is what you mean.”

He cracked a smile. “Well, yes, that is true too… but you’re right. I haven’t wanted to talk about it for a long time, but it was one of the effects of creating a Horcrux. I feel cold unless I am thinking about someone I care about.”

Hermione stared at him. “I never knew that. Oh, Tom.” She curled against him, gazing tenderly at him. “Don’t hold painful secrets for years. You can share them with me. I would rather know. It won’t hurt me.”

“I understand that now,” he said. “It’s more that I haven’t wanted to reflect on that memory much until now. It was traumatic at the time, and so many other traumatic things happened around the same time. Then we had to fight a war, and I learned the truth about Slytherin and didn’t want to think about the locket _at all…_. Some scars take a long time to heal.”

She hugged him. “I miss my family every day. I understand _that…_ and they never truly heal. We’re always different for what happened.”

He sighed again. “I hope that the children don’t have to experience anything like what we did, but I fear they will.”

She drew his robe open and caressed his lithe body, making him shiver—not with cold, external or otherwise, but with the warmth that comes from the touch of one’s beloved. “It won’t be their fight alone, if it happens. We will be there for them.”

He considered that. “Yes. We will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, dear readers, is a wrap! Thank you so, so much for reading this long, winding, uncomfortable, dark story and offering your feedback along the way. A special thanks to those readers on ffnet and AO3 who have consistently provided large amounts of detailed feedback and constructive criticism in their reviews. You know who you are, and I am not exaggerating when I say that your feedback often helped shape certain details of the story.
> 
> I have to acknowledge the many inspirations for this story: _Harry Potter_ , of course, but also (obviously) _Game of Thrones_ and _The Once and Future King_ for the version of Arthurian legend that my "enhanced" take is somewhat based on. In addition, I acknowledge inspirations from the video game _Dragon Age: Origins_. I'm not much of a gamer and haven't yet played this one (though I'm wrapping up the sequel, curiously), but my friend plays this series of games and I have read a lot about them due to her fanfics. The occupation of Ferelden by Orlais in the backstory of this game was an influence for my depiction of certain elements of the Norman wizards' occupation of the English wizarding world, particularly the disbanding of the Wizengamot. Finally, I have to pay tribute to the metal bands Blind Guardian, Demons and Wizards, Falconer, The Wolves of Avalon, Forefather, Crimson Shadows, and Cruachan; and the Modern Celtic/New Age musicians Loreena McKennitt and Govannen. Their magnificent music was my soundtrack for inspiration and writing.
> 
> If I ever write a sequel about this Tom and Hermione during the lead-up to the Third Crusade, it will probably be a story even darker than this one. I do not have this story idea "planned," but never say never.
> 
> Until then!


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